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POEMS 



CAROLINE SYMMONS, 



AXX' hregnv iroWZv SuvarxTCso;' el S'aiSaf /not 
Mi Ta^ij ?A0£, ti; av TaXi'xov eV^' ovo/t*a; 

ASCLEPI. 



CHARLES SYMMONS, D. D. 

AUTHOR OF 

" THE LIFE OF MILTON;' 

&C. &.C. 

Non ita certandi cupidus, quam p-opter amorem. 

LUCRE. 




LONDON: Qf 

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON AND CO. 

ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD. 



1812. 






Pltunmer and Brewis, Printers, Love Lane, Eastcheap. 



3* 



7 

To JOHN SYMMONS, Esq. 

Of PADDINGTON HOUSE, MIDDLESEX. 



My dear Brother! 

AWARE of the sensibility with which you shrink 
from the public eye, though qualified to expand under 
its strongest action, and not ignorant of the preference 
which you assign to the labours of intellect, in their 
competition with the sports of fancy, I cannot yet pre- 
vail upon myself to forego the indulgence of inscribing 
this volume with your name ; and of thus declaring to 
a 3 



the world, that the accident, which made us Brothers, 
has been exalted, during a long intercourse of kind 
offices, into the sentiment, which unites us as Friends. 

With your partial estimation of my powers, you have 
been solicitous to divert me from the levities of poetry 
to the solidities (if I may so express myself) of prose; 
and I had once encouraged the hope of being able to 
offer to you some work of sufficient importance to 
merit your attention, and, consequently, not to be 
wholly undeserving of the public regard : but the do- 
mestic afflictions, with which I have been visited, have 
chained my mind to a melancholy house, and have 
made it, for a season at least, impatient, if not inca- 
pable, of that vigorous and unremitted effort, which 



alone can assert dominion in any of the higher provin- 
ces of history, politics, or philosophy. 

Accept, then, with your wonted candour, of the 
little which I can now give; and whether I be crowned 
with parsley or the olive, or be mingled without dis- 
tinction amid the throng, who " come like shadows 
and so depart," be assured, my Brother! that, unaf- 
fected by my fortune, my heart will uniformly be 
your's while the duration of the present existence shall 
permit it to belong to 

CHARLES SYMMONS. 
July 16th, 1812. 



PREFACE. 



OF the poems in this volume, (to speak exclusively 
of the tragedy), which are the contribution of my own 
pen, one has already appeared in the Claims of Litera- 
ture, and some of the others have gone abroad in the 
vehicles of newspapers and magazines. The remaining 
trifles have hitherto been confined to the inspection of 
my friends : but the indulgence which all of them have 
experienced, in their more extended or more limited 
circulation, has emboldened me to offer them, in their 
present collected state, to the sentence of the public. 

Poetry is not the business, but the recreation of my 
life ; what I fervently admire when it occurs to me in 
a 3 



the pages of others, and contemplate with intense, 
though perhaps ineffectual, regard when I attempt to 
embody it in my own. As it is attained however by 
the peculiarly favoured few, or is pursued by myself, I 
am able to attend to it only at intervals and by starts, to 
relieve my mind from fatigue, or to withdraw it from 
the incursions of pain. In the event, therefore, of the 
condemnation of my rhyming family, I can affect no 
right to murmur at their fate; and when they shall 
sleep in the world of darkness, 

Quo pins JEneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, 
with the rhapsodies, the lyrics, and the epics of the 
present verse-prolific day, I must console myself with 
the transient benefit which I have experienced from 
their production ; and with the opportunity, which they 
indulge to me, of uniting my name with the name of 
one, whose mind was illumined with the brightest 
visions of fancy, whose bosom was a paradise inhabited 
by the natives of heaven, who was bound to me by ties 



of the most vital sensibility, who was mine, in short, 
by an incorporation of hearts, and for whose loss the 
wound is still open in my breast, and the tear not yet 
exhausted in my eye. 

On the subject of this youthful poetess and her com- 
positions, I will not attempt to enlarge; as the latter 
(with the exception of a few pieces which are now for 
the first time committed to the press) have already 
been sanctioned with the plaudit of the public; and as 
to dwell on the short life or the interesting character of 
the former would be a task too painful for me, even 
after this interval of years, to undertake. To my friend, 
Francis Wrangham, therefore, whose little memoir of 
my associate in this publication was composed princi- 
pally with materials supplied by my letters, I must 
leave it to execute the work from which my weakness 
retires; and wherever his ability is engaged, the inter- 



ference of mine cannot be necessary. To him, indeed, 
belongs the subject by the right of first occupancy : for 
his sensitive friendship embraced when I was not in a 
state to approach it; and, without my participation, 
produced those documents, already in his possession, 
which otherwise would still probably have slumbered 
in obscurity. His also is the subject by a superior and 
a finer right. At a crisis, when I was prostrate under 
the hand of Heaven, he associated himself with the 
name and memory of Caroline Symmons; and to 
break an association thus formed would be a species of 
unhallowed violence of which I cannot induce myself, 
even in thought, to be guilty. Of such an association I 
can only say, esto perpetua ! May the memorial of it 
survive to attest to a future age that, whatever in other 
respects might be the humility of my fortunes, I was 
once so favoured as to possess a daughter, richly en- 
dowed beyond the multitude of her kind ; and a friend, 



Xlll 

with the heart and the hand to record this pre-eminent 
distinction of my lot. 

In it's exercise however on the memory of Caroline 
Symmons, the pen of genius and sensibility has not 
been altogether restricted to the hand of my immediate 
and personal friend. In that of Mr. Capel Lofft, to 
whom I am unknown otherwise than by name, it has 
produced a sonnet of exquisite beauty, which, invested 
in it, as I feel myself to be, with a species of peculiar pro- 
perty, I will presume on it's very estimable author's per- 
mission to transcribe. His genius and moral merit must 
necessarily remain incommunicably and indivisibly his 
own, to be approached only by my respect, and regarded 
by my affection : but their production is of a more acces- 
sible nature; and on that I must allow myself to seize 
with a sort of fond rapine, for which my readers will 
thank and applaud me. 



XIV 



sonnet; 

OCCASIONED BY ONE OF MISS CAROLINE SYMMON'S, 
" ON A BLIGHTED ROSE-BUD," 

WRITTEN IN HER TWELFTH YEAR; 

She having herself fallen a victim to Consumption at the age 
of fourteen Years, and one Month, June 1st, 1803. 



O what a length of days indulged to me, 
Who little have employ'd the boon of time! 
While thee Death cropp'd in the first dawn of prime, 

Sweet and hope-breathing flower! How ill agree 

3 See Censura Literaria, vol. x. 84. where this beautiful little 
piece is introduced with high and merited eulogy by the editor, 
Sir Egerton Brydges ; and is said to be extracted from an un- 
published work entitled Laura, or Select Sonnets and 'Huartorzains. 
From the specimen of -this work, which is now before us, we must 
necessarily be solicitous for it's appearance from the press. 



Such hopes, such early fate! but no: to thee 
Expands the beauty of a purer clime, 
The eternal radiance of that blest sublime, 
Which tenderest Innocence may happiest see! — 
And such the will of Heaven. Nor could it speak 
More clearly to mankind. That loveliest bloom, 
That morn of promise which began to break 
Closed in the dreary darkness of the tomb, 
Proclaim : " Look, mortals ! to that world on high, 
Where sweetness, genius, goodness cannot die!' 

C. L. 4th Jan. 1804. 



ERRATA. 

P. 19, 1. 1st of the note, for p. 22, read p. gl. 

P. 128, 1. 1st of the note, for pontium read frontium. 

P. 135, 1. 8th from the bottom, for dynastry read dynasty. 

P. 137, 1, 1st of the note, for it's illustrious, &c. read it's most illus- 
trious, &c. 

P. 142. 1. 3d of the Latin inscription, for targis read taugis. 

P. 146, 1. 2d, for magnificency read magnificence. 

P. 191, l.gth,/or demam read demum. 

P. 201, 1. 3d from the bottom, for left read felt. 

P. 235, 1. 12th for could ever kindle read could never kindle. 

P. 27g, 1. 3d. for our read your. 

P. 303, 1. 11th, for Where's read Where is. 

P. 313. 1. 6th, for We would to ourselves, read We would be to 
ourselves. 

P. 37g, 1. 3d from the bottom, for you should read you would. 



POEMS 



CAROLINE SYMMONS, 

BORN APRIL 12th 1789-DIED JUNE 1st, 1803. 



Immodicis brevis est (Etas, et vara senectus: 
Quic quid ames, cupias non placuisse nimis. 

MART. VI. 29. 

<t>iy p£afiT4>v l£affo'Xa>XEV sag. 

ANTHOL. 



SECOND EDITION. 



MEMOIR 



CAROLINE SYMMONS, 



Rev. FRANCIS WRANGHAM, M.A. F.R.S. 



l_/AROLINE, daughter of the Rev. Charles Sym- 
mons, D. D. and Elizabeth his wife, a was born April 
12th, 178P. From her infancy she discovered indications 
of very extraordinary powers of intellect. Of these, as 
they existed in her seventh year, I had first an opportu- 

* Sister of Rear-admiral Foley, who so highly distinguished 
himself under Lord Nelson, in the battle of the Nile, and in 
that before Copenhagen. He has since married Lady Lucy 
Fitzgerald, sister to the late Duke of Leinster, 
b2 



4 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

nity of forming an estimate ; and, ere a second seven were 
well numbered, they were no more ! 

Le crespe chiome d'or ptiro lucente, 
E'l lampeggiar del' angelico riso, 
Che soleanfar in terra un paradiso, 

Poca polvere son, che mdla sente. 

(Petr. ii. xxiv.) 

At a period of life, in which grace and beauty are 
seldom so much disclosed as to interest any eyes, ex- 
cept those of the relative or of the friend, she was strik- 
ingly endowed with both ; and if I had the pencil of a 
Reynolds or a Hoppner, I would endeavour to do justice 
to her personal charms. But those, at their " best state, 
are altogether vanity." Ut vultas hominum, ita simula- 
cra vultus imbecilla ac mortalia sunt ; forma mentis 
ccterna.* (Tac Agric. 46.) From a subject therefore, 

a Yet with these perishable tokens of our regard we are 
delighted to honour, and for a while to preserve, the memory 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SIMMONS. 5 

to which I feel myself unequal, I turn to the display of 
her mind — a labour indeed still more hopeless, if spe- 
cimens of it's energies were not fortunately in existence, 
which will in a great measure supersede the necessity 
of other description. 

Zelida* the first of her poems, with which I was fa- 
voured by her father soon after it's composition, is dated 
Nov. 24, 1800; and, as the production of a child (if 
she could ever properly have been called a child) of 
eleven years of age, is surely most wonderful. What 

of the dear departed ; and he must be a stern philosopher, who 
can deride or dissuade their adoption. A bust by Nollekens 
was executed from a model taken from her face after her de- 
cease. It represents her features with accuracy ; and is one of 
that excellent artist's best works: but to animate the marble 
with the full character and illumination of her countenance, 
would have exceeded the powers of the chissel in the hand of a 
Phidias or a Praxiteles. 

• See p. ST. 
b3 



6 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

may perhaps excite at least equal surprise with the 
beauty of the stanzas themselves, is the selection of the 
subject — " A faded rose-bush!" What a theme, to be 
chosen by a youthful poetess, in the full tide of health 
and animation! How sweetly characteristic of her own 
blossoming, the third verse! 

This rose-tree once flourish'd, and sweeten'd the air; 

Like it's blossom all lovely she grew : 
The scent of her breath, as it's fragrance, was rare ; 

And her cheeks were more fresh than it's hue. 

The fourth, how mournfully ominous of her decay! 3 

She planted, she loved it, she dew'd it's gay head ; 

And it's bloom every rival defied. 
But, alas ! what was beauty, or virtue, soon fled : 

In spring they both blossom'd and died! 

a What admirer of elegant modern Latinity will not here be 
forcibly reminded of Vincent Bourne's distich 1 

Stella, rosas miserere, et dum miserere, memento 
2ubd brevis est avi, quod tua forma rosa est. 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 7 

" It is, indeed (said a lady of considerable taste, upon 
reading it) little less than miraculous, and so completely 
unlike any other compositions I have ever known, that 
delightful as I think it, I should feel almost terrified at 
such premature excellence — excellence of every kind; 
for one knows not which most to admire, the genius 
which inspires, or the taste which executes!" Prophe- 
tic forebodings! too soon, too fully, to be realised! 

I must not omit adding, with respect to this exquisite 
little piece, upon her father's authority, that like all 
her other works, " it was in the strictest sense her own, 

The breves rosce indeed, and the 'gtiov axp.a£ov Btuw x£°vov, are but 
too accurately applicable, in many melancholy instances, to the 
choicest human flowers ; as the sad stories of Thomas Williams 
Malkin, Joshua Rowley Gilpin, Henry Kirke White, and Eliza- 
beth Smith, abundantly attest: but too often, 

hoary-headed frosts 

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ! 

(Shaksp. Mids. Night's Dream, ii. 2.) 

b4 



8 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

having received no improvements or heightenings from 
the suggestions of any person whatever" — a declaration 
in which I place the most implicit confidence, from my 
knowledge of both the parties concerned, neither of 
whom could have done so much violence to their nature, 
as to descend for an instant to any thing like imposition 
or deceit. 

Four sonnets, entitled, To Fannid? On a blighted 
Rose-bud ; b Written in Winter? and On Spring 11 ; and 
dated Oct. 21, Nov. 27, 28, and 29, 1800, respectively; 
with a story in the heroic measure, Laura, consisting 
of more than five hundred harmonious lines, and the 
very pathetic Flower-GirVs Cry* distinguished the 

a Her sister, p. 29. 
b See p. 40. These pathetic lines are to be inscribed on her 
tomb. 

c See p. 39. « See p. 41, e See p. 59. 

f See p. 42. These beautiful verses have been set to music 
by Mr. Adams, and by Miss Hague (daughter of Dr. Hague, 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 9 

close of this brilliant year. From the prevalence of 
wintry dates indeed throughout her compositions, all 
of which were executed in the interval between October 
and April, it may be inferred, that the vein of this in- 
fantine muse (like that of her own Milton, as represented 
by Philips) " flowed most happily from the autumnal 
equinox to the vernal." 

With regard to the whole of the above-named effu- 
sions, if it be suggested that the writer was still not 
within sight of her teens, it is not in the slightest degree 
intended as an apology (for what is there in them to 
demand apology?) but merely to keep in the reader's 
mind, what their singularly elegant execution would 
otherwise inevitably cause him to forget. He will be 
astonished to discover in them at once accuracy of me- 
chanical structure, flowing numbers, and splendid ex- 



Prof. Mus. Cam.) herself at the time scarcely exceeding the 
poetess in years J 



10 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

pression; and he will not fail to observe, that she has 
gathered many a " wood-hare-bell," which had been 
overlooked by her taller predecessors in the same track. 

The passionate attachment which she at this period 
felt to the best English Poets, among whom Spenser 
and young Milton were her prime favourites, ought here 
to be mentioned. So much indeed was she struck with 
the charms of U Allegro and II Penseroso, that to have 
been the author of them, she declared " there was no 
personal sacrifice of face or form, which she would have 
declined :" and few have had so much of either to offer. 
Nay, subsequently — on her returning home one morning 
from Ware, the oculist's/ where she had been under- 

a Of this eminent man illustrious mention is made in her fa- 
ther's life of Milton, where it is said, " If we were desirous of 
paying Thevenot (a physician, most honourably alluded to in one 
of Milton's letters to Leon. Philaras) a high compliment, we 
should call him, 'the Ware of the seventeenth century, and of. 
France!' If the French physician actually possessed the skill 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE STMMOR4 11 

going an operation — when her sufferings became the 
subject of conversation, and a tender concern was ex- 
pressed for the possible danger to which the sight of 
the afflicted organ was exposed, she said with a smile, 
that " to be a Milton, she would cheerfully consent to 
lose both her eyes." 

From this feeble attempt to show her, like her own 
rose-tree, " flourishing and sweetening the air," I am 
reluctantly summoned to represent her, like it, fading 
away: to represent 

Gli occhisereyi, e le stellanti ciglie, 
La bella bocca angelica, di perle 
Plena e di rose e di dolci parole, Sfc. 

(Petr. I. clxvii.) 

gradually losing their hue and their lustre, though not 

and the benevolence of our admirable oculist, he must have 
been the ornament and the blessing of his age." 

(Ed. 2d. p. 375. not.) 



12 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

their sweetness. For now the delicacy of her health 
began first to excite serious alarm in the breasts of her 
parents. Of this, a letter from her father, dated March 
19, 1801, conveyed to me the mournful intelligence; 
and, along with it, a promise (of which I did not, I fear, 
sufficiently stimulate the fulfilment) that the whole of 
her productions should, at some time or other, be tran- 
scribed for me, " as an interesting specimen of childish 
ability." Of those which reached me, the earliest is an 
Invocation to Memory* a poem full of expressions little 
noticed by her friends on it's original appearance, Feb. 
18, 1801; but which must since have recurred with 
painful emphasis to their feelings ! This was followed 
by an Address to Content* which from her peculiar 
diffidence she would not permit to be called an ode, 
dated Feb. 22; May-day , c and the Snow-drop, , d March 
10; The Hare-bell; March 16; a Song 1 , April 30; an 

• See p. 44. fc See p. 46. c See p. 48. 

- See p. 52. * See p. 50. f See p. 53. 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 13 

Invocation to Sleep*, Oct. 20; and a Sonnet to Mrs. 
Cornwall* Nov. 4, 1801. Of these, the Snow-drop, the 
Song, and the Invocation to Sleep, were intended for 
insertion in a romance (the Orphan of the Cottage) 
which she and her elder sister had begun in partner- 
ship, but which has since, with a feeling easily conceiv- 
able, been thrown into the fire by the lovely survivor. 

Her last composition, a Sonnet to her Aunt, Lady 
Lucy Foley, on her Birth-day, c ilia tanquam eyenea di- 
vince puello? vox, was written in February, 1S03. Before 
the end of this month a cough, accompanied with fever, 

a See p. 55. 
b See p. 57. In the concluding couplet of this last exqui- 
site production, she had the candour to reject an alteration of 
one line proffered by her father, on the plea of having the whole 
fourteen her own, modestly remarking at the same time, that 
" some faults would stamp the composition as more legitimately 
hers." 

« See p. 58, 



14 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

had reduced her to the lowest stage of weakness, with- 
out however in the slightest degree affecting either 
her spirits or her temper. By her father, who with 
his excellent and beloved wife hung over her sick bed 
in the most palpitating state of anxiety, I was informed 
(in a letter, dated April 17) that the nature of her com- 
plaint was ascertained to be pulmonary 1 ; a conclusion in 
no respect weakened by the frequent alterations of better 
and worse, so generally characteristic of affections of 
the lungs. Those who, like myself, have ever lost a 
dear friend by the mining of a similar assailant, will 
not need to be told what were now the reciprocations 
of hope and fear in the hearts of her surrounding rela- 
tions. The low and languid morning, so often unex- 
pectedly following a day of cheerfulness and a night of 
repose, the delusive glow of the cheek, the debility and 

a It was not, however, the common phthisis, but the catarrhal 
fever (generally known by the name of the « Influenza') which 
proved fatal to numbers in the early months of the year 1803. 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMON.S. 15 

emaciation, and above all, the importunate and unre- 
lenting cough — as exhibited to me in the last days of a 
father, to whose judicious tenderness and self-denying 
liberality, under God, I owe all my blessings — will 
never be erased from my remembrance : 

O thou, my mingled joy and woe, 
Sweet source of every bursting sigh ! 

Who bidd'st these silent sorrows flow — 
Hail! heaven-born soothing memory ! 

(Caroline Symmons.) 

Now might have been repeated over her, with well- 
deserved and prophetical panegyric, the well-known 
chef cC ceuvre of Petrarch: 

Chi vuol veder quantunque pub natura 
EH ciel tranoi, venga a mirar costei, 
Cli'e sola un sol; nonpur agli occhi mici, 

Ma al mondo cieco die vntk non euro. 



10 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

E venga tosto ; perche Mortejura 

Prima i migliori, e lascia star i rei. 

Questa, aspettata al regno degli Dei, 
Cosa bella mortal passa e non dura. 

Vedrh, s* arriva a tempo, ogni virtute, 
Ogni bellezza, ogni real costume 

Giunti in un corpo con mirabil tempre : 
Allor dira che mie rime son mute, 
V ingegno offeso dal soverchio lume — 
Ma, sepiu tarda, avrcl dapianger semprefi 

(I. ccx.) 

On the first of June, the terrible blow, which had 

b Of this inimitable sonnet I have attempted a translation, 
which it perhaps requires some apology for subjoining to such a 
masterpiece of elegance and pathos, giunti in un corpo, even in a 
note: 

Stranger! whose curious glance delights to trace 
What heaven and nature join'd to frame most rare, 
Here view mine eyes bright sun : a sight so fair, 

That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze. 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 17 

been so long suspended, fell, and her gentle spirit " re- 
turned unto God who gave it." 

Early, bright, transient, chaste — aa morning dew, 
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven. 

(Young, Night v.) 

Another touch or two of the pencil, and I have done. 

To her extraordinary charms and talents, she united 
virtues almost as extraordinary; particularly those of 

But speed thy step ; for Death with rapid pace 
Pursues the best, nor deems the bad his care. 
Call'd to the skies, through yon blue fields of air, 

On buoyant plume the cherub-child obeys. 

Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined — 
And while surpassing lustre pains the eye, 
Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay — 
Each charm of person, and each grace of mind : 
But if thy lingering foot my call deny, 
Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay 

F.W. 
C 



18 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

exquisite but well-regulated sensibility, of active hu- 
manity, of diffidence which shrunk from applause, and 
of piety, which like the cypress, ever-verdant, seemed 
to flourish with augmented vigour upon the borders of 
the grave. Those will be best illustrated by two or 
three little anecdotes; which however, independently 
of their present application, deserve to be recorded, 
were it only as they display, at a very early age, an un- 
common degree of reflexion and right feeling. 

One of her uncles, on his return from Fiance (where 
he had spent some time during the first period of the 
disastrous revolution in that countiy) presented to her, 
then quite a child, a national cockade. This she wore 
with apparent pleasure, until the king was put to death ; 
when she instantly carried it to her father, declaring, 
that " she would never again wear the colours of a peo- 
ple, who had committed so cruel a deed." 

In a more advanced stage of her short life, her father, 



MEMOIR Or CAROLINE SYMMONS. 19 

to show his high approbation of her poetry and of her 
general excellence, addressed her in a sonnet/ which 
he inscribed in a copy of his Sicilian Captive, and gave 
to her, in the presence of his whole family. As soon as 
the praise caught her eye, she closed the book; and, 
with a countenance which " spoke unutterable things," 
returned it to the giver, to be withdrawn from the ob- 
servation of her brothers, whose sensibilities she feared 
might be hurt, by the preference thus obviously assigned 
to herself. 

a See p. 13. The drama, lo which these tender lines were 
prefixed, in the better days of our English Melpomene would 
not have been confined to the shelf of English classics: but 

migravit ab aure volnptces 

Omnis ad incertos oculos — 

(Hor. Ep. II. i. 188.; 
And the meteor-glare of a masque or a procession, a stuffed ele- 
phant, a Newfoundland dog, or a horse in mock convulsions is 
preferred even to Shakspeare himself. I am prevented, however, 
from attempting to do justice to the author of the Sicilian Captive, 
by the recollection that these pages will pass under his eye on 
their way to the press. 

C2 



20 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

Not many months before her decease, a beggar-wo- 
man in the neighbourhood, who had long been the ob- 
ject of her secret beneficence, through her interest with 
some of the managers of the Westminster Hospital re- 
ceived for one of her children, which had suffered by 
an accident, support and medical assistance. In conse- 
quence of not seeing for some time her youthful bene- 
factress, the poor creature was induced to inquire of the 
servants about her; and, on being made acquainted 
with her loss, burst into a violent fit of crying, and be- 
trayed almost frantic grief. These bounties, it ap- 
peared, the little angel had furnished from a small fund 
of her own; and, when her purse failed, had (frequently 
with her own hands) supplied the deficiency from her 
father's kitchen. But what distinguished her charity, 
and indeed her whole conduct, from that of most other 
children was, the principle from which they proceeded, 
and from which they derived the steadiness and the 
uniformity of system. This it is the parent's " delightful 
task,"— in the present instance how admirably executed ! 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 21 

— to infuse into their offspring : not cherishing in them 
the capricious self-indulgence of the sentimentalist, or 
the mechanical generosity of the spendthrift ; but from 
their earliest dawn of reason proposing to them, as the 
invariable object of all their alms and actions, the fulfil- 
ment of the will of God. With the five talents dis- 
pensed to Caroline Symmons it does not, probably, 
fall to the lot of one in a whole age or country to be en- 
trusted; but all may be rendered capable of enjoying, 
and of diffusing, their maximum of happiness, by the 
sedulous improvement of whatever smaller number they 
have received. It should also be recollected, as the 
compensation of their inferiority, that with great abili- 
ties are inseparably connected great duties and great 
dangers : that their functions are arduous, and their re- 
sponsibilities alarming: and not to mention with Mar- 
tial the Immodicis brevis oetas, or what Waller re- 
presents as 

The common fate of all things rare, 
How small a part of time they share, 
Who are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
c 3 



22 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

that the leirgus et exundans ingeniifons,* * the prodigal and 
overflowing spring of genius,' even without this per- 
haps superstitious notion of a premature exhaustion, is 
still not one of the boons (if we may trust the records of 
history) which a father should importune heaven to be- 
stow upon his child. 

To return. Not less remarkable than the beauties of 
her person, the elegance of her taste, the strength of her 
understanding, and the goodness of her heart, was her 
steadfast and humble piety. Through the whole of her 
illness, she was constant in her devotions; and, when 

8 Juv. Sat. X. 119. a poem once recommended by a bishop to 
his clergy in a pastoral letter, and for it's vivid imagery and it's 
aweful sublimity perhaps unparalleled. What could be done 
however, in the way of imitation, has been done by our own John- 
son in his Vanity of Human Wishes, in which the whole passage 
upon the perils of literary eminence in particular, 
" When first the college-rolls," &c, 
is singularly impressive. 



MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMM0N.9. 23 

the extreme weakness and emaciation occasioned by her 
malady made the posture of kneeling (long painful) at 
length impracticable, she deeply regretted the circum- 
stance, as disqualifying her for offering her adorations in 
a suitable manner. With such a disposition, it will not 
be matter of surprise that her behaviour, at all times ex- 
emplary, in the hours immediately preceding her disso- 
lution, should have been admirable. Not a single com- 
plaint fell from her lips. Even on the last morning of 
her earthly existence, when she had expressed to her 
maid a wish to die, she instantly corrected herself, and 
said, " No, it is sinful to wish for death ; I will not 
wish for it." 

She was, in short, as pure a character as perhaps has 
ever appeared; and discovered, in the short space of 
fourteen years, a very singular combination of intellec- 
tual and moral excellence. But she is 'gone from this 
valley of grief to that better world, where there shall be 
" no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither 
c4 



24 MEMOIR OF CAROLINE SYMMONS. 

shall there be any more pain: for to her the former 
things are passed away." Rescued from the dangers and 
evils of this probationary state, she is surely in her fate, as 
she was in her faculties and her accomplishments, most 
enviable. — Alas! I speak — as a philosopher : but, when 
I turn my eyes to my own little prattling daughters, I 
shudder at the uncertainty of fate ; I mingle my tears 
with those of my friend; I feel — as a man. 

F.W. 



POEMS. 



ROBIN RED-BREAST. 



WHEN Winter chill'd the dreary plains, 
And bound the earth in icy chains; 
When not a flower adorn'd the ground, 
And leafless trees with snow were crown'd, 
A Robin came my house to share, 
And to partake my little fare. 
" Lovely Robin! come," said I, 
" And sip my bowl most willingly. 



26 

" Food in plenty I've got here, 

" And fire your little heart to cheer. 

" When Summer comes to wake the flowers, 

" And dress with pinks the shady bowers, 

" Then, little Robin, you shall fly 

" Along the meads at liberty : 

" Then you shall hop from spray to spray, 

" And sing your songs to me and May." 



27 



ROSE. 



SEE! where yon Rose adorns the vale, 
Spangled with morning's dew ; 

Her perfume scents the passing gale, 
Her colours charm the view. 

But, ah! the tints too soon will fly 

In which she is array'd; 
Her lovely head will droop and die, 

And every beauty fade. 

Sweet charming flower! the pride of May, 

The grace of every mead ; 
That makest the blooming lawn look gay, 

Come wreathe my FanniaV head! 

* Her sister. 



28 

There thou wilt look more fair and bright, 

Than glowing on the ground ; 
There thou wilt be the eye's delight, 

And gaze of all around. 



SONNET. 
TO F ANN I A. 



FANNIA! behold, where yonder harmless bee 

Wantonly sports around that woodbine bower ; 
. She sips the nectar'd sweets of every flower, 
And spends her happy days in mirthful glee. 

Yet some, my girl! — ah! how unlike to thee! 

Would on this insect wreak their brutal power. 
Would now — even now, disturb that industry 

Which gilds her every short but blissful hour. 

But thou hast never shown that cruel will: 
Let those who are in glittering coaches roll'd, 

The helpless insect of a morning kill ; 
While nought they prize, but luxury and gold. 



30 

Thou wilt not such a barbarous task fulfil ; 
For thy young heart, my love, was form'd of softer 
mould.* 

- a These, with the exception of two small pieces, which she 
threw off extemporally and addressed to her sister, were the 
earliest productions of the young poetess's, with which I was made 
acquainted. They were written, when she had only just com- 
pleted her tenth year. Not liking the peculiarity of her own 
hand-writing, she generally employed the pen of her elder sister 
to commit her verses to paper. When she wrote them down her- 
self, she confided them to the first scrap which occurred to her; 
and then wholly neglected them. Some of them have, in conse- 
quence, been lost; and some been found, after her decease, in 
a mutilated and imperfect state. Among these was the following 
unfinished poem. When it was composed, or whether it was 
brought by it's author to a conclusion, I am unable to ascertain; 
but I am inclined to think that it is to be classed with her earliest 
attempts in verse, and was written about the same time with the 
two first pieces in this collection. With more marks of careless- 
ness that are usually to be found in her compositions, several of 
it's stanzas are beautiful, and the selection of it's story, for its 
melancholy cast, remarkable and peculiar. To supply the 
deficiency of one stanza, I have been obliged to insert two lines/ 
which are distinguished by italics. C.S. 



.'51 



FLORIO. 



THE sun had just removed the clouds of night, 

And evening dews still spangled o'er the mead; 
The flowers unclosed their blooms to hail the light, 

When the young Florio left his lowly bed. 
Onward he walk'd, unweeting where he stray'd, 

For his gay heart ne'er felt mirth-pois'ning care ; 
His milk-white flock around his footsteps play'd, 

And blooming flowrets fragranced all the air. 
The breathing scene delighted Florio's eye, 

He stopp'd, and pull'd the roses from their stems; 
The bashful violet, of a purple dye, 

The hare-bell cluster' d with the morning's gems. 
" Come, every flower," he cries, " that decks the grove, 

" Thou, primrose, bending o'er thy velvet bed; 
" Haste all, and join to ornament my love, 

" To form a garland for my Emma's head." 



32 

Then from the scene as Florio turn'd his eyes, 

A lowly cottage stood before his sight : 
Twas roof 'd of straw, small was its shapely size, 

And all appear' d the seat of sweet delight. 
Around its walls a fragrant rose entwined 

Her blushing arms, which warm with crimson glow'd ; 
The circling pales were gaily jessamined, 

And through the grass a winding streamlet flow'd. 
Pleased with the simple interest of the place, 

He gazed till, as on thoughts of woe intent, 
A man he saw; despair had worn his face, 

And his fine form by length of years was bent. 
«' Old man!" young Florio thus the sage address'd, 

" Say from what sorrows flows that frequent tear. 
" Oh ! if by grief your bosom is oppress' d, 

" Let Florio try your sinking heart to cheer. 
" A shepherd's life flows sweetly and serene, 

" Calm as the sky, when spread with summer blue; 
" Pleasing and cheerful as the mellow'd scene, 

* When the pale moon displays her silver hue." 



33 

" My happiness," the man replied, " is gone!" 

And as he spoke, he shook his hoary head: 
" Within this world I'm helpless and alone, 

" Since both my Charles and Emily are dead ! 
" Oh! may I never cease again to weep! 

" Since 'tis for Charles and Emily I mourn. 
" And may these eyes ne'er know the balm of sleep, 

" Since they can never from the grave return! 
" When my Emilia hover'd near her death, 

" Ah! stranger, hadst thou then the damsel seen, 
" With pallid cheeks, half-suffocated breath, 

" Sure thou would'st never have forgot the scene. 
" Shepherd! you weep! ye heavens! can one so young, 

" In the misfortunes of Cordelius share ? 
" Have my sad griefs your tender bosom wrung? 

" Or has that bosom known some kindred care? 
" Then come within this bower's impending shade, 

" The story of my sorrows I'll relate; 
" That bower, which they so oft with flowers array'd, 

" Shall hear me mourn their sad untimely fate. 

D 



34 

" Know then, young man, two children bless'd my arms, 

" Two children, lovelier than the stars of night: 
" The opening rose-bud could not match their charms, 

" Nor did the golden morn appear so bright. 
" In industry and mirth we pass'd the hours ; 

" Nor thought of death, that came, alas! too soon: 
" Our eves we pass'd within these blooming bowers, 

" And saw with cheerful eyes the rising moon. 
" In their sweet company my troubles fled ; 

" With them my poverty was all forgot: 
" But now my Charles and Emily are dead, 

" And with sharp pangs I mourn my hapless lot. 
" One year dire Famine raged o'er all the land, 

" And changed the face of this once fertile ground: 
** She came, she held a dagger in her hand, 

" And cast a horrid smile on all around. 
" 'Twas just, young man, as if the demon said,— 
Coetera demrtt. 



35 



LINES, 

1VRITTEN NEAR THE SEA AT WORTHING, 
IN AN 

AUTUMN EVENING IN THE YEAR isoo. 



A FRAGMENT. 



THE weary flowers now close their various eyes ; 

And gently swells the undulating deep : 
The gems of heaven shed radiance o'er the skies, 

And all the pleasing landscape's lull'd in sleep. 

Here let me pause while nought disturbs the scene ; 

Whilst Eve's soft hands her crystal dew-drops shed: 
She bids the moon ascend the clear serene, 

And o'er the waves her trembling lustre spread. 
d 2 



36 

Beaming and mild, she mounts upon her throne \ 
Views all around by silence hush'd to rest; 

Hears nought but ocean's gentle dash alone, 
And robes calm Nature in her silver vest. 

What varying colours in the deep are seen! 

Here a bright line of azure blends with white: 
There deeper waves a shade of lively green, 

Closed by a glowing purple from my sight 

But soon shall Winter's rage invade these charms ; 

Shroud yonder glowing sky with hand of storm : 
The unruffled ocean shake with strong alarms ; 

Confuse it's tints, and all the view deform. 



37 
ZELIDA, 

AND 

THE FADED ROSE-BUSH, 

WHICH GREW NEAR HER TOMB. 



THE SISTER SPEAKS. 

I GAZED on the rose-bush, I heaved a sad sigh, 
And mine eye-lid was gemm'd with a tear; 

Oh ! let me, I cried, by my Zelida lie, 
For all that I value sleeps here. 

Her sweetness, simplicity, virtue, and charms, 
Could with nought but a seraph's compare: 
Ah! now, since my Zelida's torn from my arms, 
There is nothing I love but despair. 
d 3 



38 

This rose-bush once flourish'd and sweeten' d the air, 
Like it's blossom, all lovely, she grew; 

The scent of her breath, as it's fragrance, was rare, 
And her cheeks were more fresh than it's hue. 

She planted, she loved it, she dew'd it's gay head, 

And it's bloom every rival defied ; 
But, alas! what was beauty or virtue soon fled— 

In spring they both blossom'd and died. 

And' now for my bosom this life has no charms ; 

I feel all it's trouble and care : 
For since my dear Zelida's rent from my arms, 

There is nothing I love but despair. 

Nov. 4th, 1800. 



39 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN IN WINTER— 1800. 



AERIiVL Flora! sister of the spring, 

Arise, and let thy blooming form be seen: 

Haste ! play thy youthful fancies on the green, 
And from thy hand ambrosial odours fling. 
Invite the sylvan quire to wake and sing, 

While the sun sleeps in gold upon the scene : 
To dress the grove thy clust'ring hare-bell bring, 

And chase hoar winter with thy sprightly mien. 
Then shall sweet zephyrs and prolific showers 

Succeed to parching winds and beating rain; 
With their soft balm re-animate the flowers, 

And strew gay cowslips o'er the golden plain. 
Then frosts no more shall waste the roseate bowers, 

But Flora, crown'd with sweets, her sway unhurt 
maintain, 



40 

SONNET. 
ON A BLIGHTED ROSE-BUD. 



SCARCE had thy velvet lips imbibed the dew, 

And Nature hail'd thee, infant queen of May ; 

Scarce saw thine opening bloom the sun's broad ray, 
And to the air its tender fragrance threw ; 
When the north-wind enamour'd of thee grew, 

And by his cold rude kiss thy charms decay. 
Now droops thy head, now fades thy blushing hue \ 

No more the queen of flowers, no longer gay. 
So blooms a maid, her guardians, Health and Joy, 

Her mind array' d in innocency's vest; 
When, suddenly, impatient to destroy, 

Death clasps the virgin to his iron breast. 
She fades : the parent, sister, friend deplore 
The charms and budding virtues, now no more! 

Nov. 27th, 1800. 



41 

SONNET. 
ON SPRING. 



THPtONED on soft clouds, his locks with hawthorn 
bound : 

Twined with young rose-buds, jocund Spring appears : 

The little violet with his smile he cheers, 
And teaches primroses to bloom around. 
To his pleased ear the birds their carols sound, 

And near his feet, it's head the sweet-briar rears. 
Nature exults to see her darling crown'd, 

And all the living scene his power reveres. 
The hill and valley, with bright verdure spread; 

The infant Ceres in her verdant gown; 
The various plants, which open on the mead. 

And fanning gales his genial presence own. 
But soon the rage of Summer shall succeed, 

And scorch the sweets, which breathe in Spring's 
soft lap alone. 

Nov. 29th, 1800. 



42 



THE 



FLOWER-GIRL'S CRY. 



COME, buy my wood-hare-bells, my cowslips come buy! 

Oh! take my carnations and jessamines sweet! 
Lest their beauties should wither, their perfumes should 
die, 

All snatch'd, like myself, from their native retreat! 

O ye, who in pleasure and luxury live, 

Whose bosoms would sink beneath half my sad woes; 
Ah! deign to my cry a kind answer to give, 

And shed a soft tear for the fate of poor Rose! 

Yet once were my days happy, sweet, and serene, 
And once have I tasted the balm of repose: 

But now on my cheek meagre famine is seen, 
And anguish prevails in the bosom of Rose. 



43 

Then buy my wood hare-bells, my cowslip's come, buy! 

Oh! take my carnations and jessamines sweet! 
Lest their beauties should wither, their perfumes should 
die, 

All snatch'd, like myself, from their native retreat! 

Doc. 1800. 



44 

INVOCATION 
TO MEMORY. 



HAIL, Memory! celestial maid, 
Who lovest with solitude to dwell 

Under the mountain's ragged shade, 
Retired within thy pensive cell. 

O thou, my mingled joy and woe, 
Sweet source of every bursting sigh ! 

Who bidd'st these silent sorrows flow, 
Hail! heaven-born, soothing Memory! 

The sky is clad in tenderest blue; 

And zephyr spreads his balmy wing ; 
The bending floweret weeps with dew ; 

The bird's soft song salutes the spring. 



45 

Yet far retired from this gay scene, 
From Solitude and thee I seek 

My friend's soft sigh, her smile serene, 
Her speaking eye, her moisten'd cheek. 

Come, then', and soothe my lab' ring heart! 

Come, awful power, and sweetest maid ! 
O haste! my Lucia's smile impart! 

And leave the mountain's ragged shade. 

Feb. 18th, 1801. 



46 

ADDRESS 
TO CONTENT. 



SWEET child of Virtue! calm Content! 

Friend of the lowly ! hear my cry ; 
Who turn'st the dart by SorroAV sent, 

And smooth'st the rugged brow of Poverty! 

Gay morn awakes her wanton gale, 
To kiss the sweets of every mead; 

Soft dews impearl the verdant vale, 

And gently bend the cowslip's silken head. 

Yet without thee vain blooms the scene, 
In vain the sylvan warbler sings ; 

In vain the dale is clad in green, 

In vain the spicy shrub soft odour flings. 



47 

Come, then, sweet maid! bid trouble cease, 
And here thy heavenly sisters bring; 

Light Cheerfulness and white-robed Peace, 
Teach woe to smile, and bending toil to sing. 

She hears! she comes! she cheers my breast, 

And adds fresh lustre to the view. 
How richly now the tulip's drest! 

How sweet the little violet's milder hue ! 

Yes! place me where the cold wind blows; 

With her the storm I will not dread. 
O'er all a sunny robe she throws, 

And twines the wreath of Spring for Winter' 
head. 

Feb. 22d, 1801. 



48 



MAY-DAY. 



NOW breaking from her long repose, 
Light May with rosy footstep walks the mead, 
While white-eyed hawthorn blossoms on her head, 

And king-cups round her feet unclose. 
And see! where, in yon flowery grove, 
The shepherd twines a garland for his love; 
And beneath the lime's sweet arms, 
Tells of innocency's charms : 
While all around them May's soft influence prove ; 
And gay delight each bosom warms. 
The lawn's green lap with flowerets strown, 
The genial showers which animate the vale, 
The odours scatter'd on each balmy gale, 
And heaven's warm blue her presence own. 



49 

Sweetest virgin! flower-crown'd May! 
For whom the shepherd tunes his simple lay: 

Dresser of the purple year! 

Ever shed thy blessings here! 
And long beneath thy sceptre's gentle sway 

May these laughing plains appear! 

March 10th, 1801. 



sa 



HARE-BELL. 



IN Spring's green lap there blooms a flower, 
Whose cups imbibe each vernal shower: 
Who sips fresh Nature's balmy dew, 
Clad in her sweetest, purest blue : 
Yet shuns the ruddy beam of morning, 
The shaggy wood's brown shades adorning. 
Simple floweret! child of May! 
Though hid from the broad eye of day : 
Though doom'd to waste those pensive graces 
In the wild wood's dark embraces; 
In desert air thy sweets to shed, 
Unnoticed droop the languid head ; 
Yet Nature's darling thou' It remain; 
She feeds thee with her softest rain : 



51 

Fills each sweet bell with honied tears; 

With genial gales thy blossom cheers. 

Still then unfold thy bashful charms 

In yon deep thicket's circling arms. 

Far from the common eye's coarse glare, 

No heedless hand shall harm thee there. 

Still then avoid the gaudy scene ; 

The flaunting sun, the embroider'd green; 

And bloom and fade, with chaste reserve, unseen. 

March 16th, 1801. 



E2 



52 



SNOW-DROP. 



When iron Winter's desolating gale 
Wastes the green beauties of the vale ; 
The Snow-drop rears her pensile head, 
And meekly blossoms in the naked mead : 
While no young verdure springs beneath her feet, 
And fierce and beating rains low bend the tender sweet. 
Torne from her playful infancy's loved haunt, 
And thrown to pride's unfeeling taunt, 
To inward-eating care a prey, 
Thus the sad orphan treads life's desert way: 
While no soft accents breathe her woes to cheer, 
No pitying eye distils the sweetly soothing tear. 

March 20th, 1801. 



53 



SONG. 



O BEAR me to Sicilia's plains, 
Where golden-handed plenty reigns ; 
And pure-eyed Faith is wont to rove, 
Through the glowing vales with Love. 
Bear me to her myrtle bowers, 
Thickly twined with breathing flowers ; 
And lull me as the wild bee sings, 
There by her sleep-enticing springs. 
While the lark, with varied voices, 
To see the purple year rejoices; 
And the citron, glowing fair, 
Perfumes the fanning wing of air. 
Flowers in more mingled colours drest, 
Than paint the tulip's purfled vest; 
e3 



54 

And shrubs on Nature's bounty feeding, 
Liquid balsams sweetly bleeding ; 
Shedding ambrosial sweets around, 
Mantle the green breast of the ground. 
Let me then raise my love-tuned song, 
Sicily's sweet plains among: 
There my rosy hours employ, 
And wing slow time with airy joy. 



April 30th, 1801, 



55 



SLEEP. 



COME, Sleep! sweet binder of the wounds of pain! 
Thou who check'st affliction's dart, 
Luller of the woe-toss'd heart! 
Death's pleasing image, come! and show me Charles 

again! 
Say! hast thou wooed him in some cave to lie, 

Where Summer hangs her fairest wreath, 
And loads with rose-flung sweets the morning's breath ; 
With dewy influence there to close the eye, 

To lap stolen sense in transient death, 
And bid him dying live, and living sweetly die ? 
Or canst thou tell me, what flower-broider'd way 
His footsteps kiss, or where his eye, 
Held by :?fipture's flowery tie, 
And drinkin golden bliss, lingers with fond delay? 
e4 



56 

Haste thee then, Nymph, in deepest darkness bright! 

Sweet delusion with thee bring; 
And with soft hand thy balmy blessings fling. 
Haste thee! and cause thy form to shine through night : 

Life with sweet oblivion wing: 
Gild night with day's rich blaze, and death with life 
delight! 

October 20th, 1801. 



57 

SONNET. 
TO MRS. CORNWALL, 

OF CHART PARK, NEAR DORKING. 



CORNWALL! accept a stranger's grateful lay, 
Who fain would thank thee for the warm delight 
Felt in these grounds, that, gay with life, invite 

The poet's strain, and wooe the foot to stray 

Where changeful Nature vaunts her fair display, 
And Spring and Summer paints with pencil bright ; 
Till, as calm Autumn mellows on the sight, 

She sinks in golden age and rich decay. 

Here charms her various leaf — her waving line, 
With green health glowing, and refined by art: 

Yet brighter beauties in thy bosom shine, 



58 

Beauties to last when those shall all depart. 
And far more sweet the charms which there combine : 
For those but please the eye, while these enchain the 
heart. 

Nov. 4th, 1801. 



59 



TO 



LADY LUCY FOLEY, 

ON HER BIRTH.DAT— FEBRUARY litk. 

SONNET. 



NO morn now blushes on the enamour'd sight, 
No genial sun now warms the torpid lay; 
Since February sternly check'd his ray, 

When Lucy's eyes first beam'd their azure light. 

What though no vernal flowers my hand invite, 
To crop their fragrance for your natal day ; 
Lucy ! for you the snow-drop and the bay 

Shall blend the unfading green and modest white. 



60 

Though on your natal day, with aspect bleak 
Stern Winter frown, in icy garments drest: 

Still may the rosy Summer robe your cheek, 
And the green Spring still bud within your breast! 

Till the world fading on your closing eyes, 

You find a golden Autumn in the skies— 

Feb. 1803. 



61 



LAURA. 



NEAR where the Alpine summits, crown'd with snow, 
O'erhung by woods, survey'd the Var below ; 
Whose rallies were with golden harvests spread ; 
The seat of peace, a cottage rear'd it's head. 
These walls, where sweet content for ever reign'd, 
A maid more lovely than the morn contain'd : 
Pure as the dew-drop, as the lily fair, 
The good Aubigny's dearest, only care. 

a This poem was written at Worthing, in Sussex, during the 
autumn of 1800, and was brought by it's author to a just and com- 
plete end. After her decease, however, only a mutilated and 
carelessly transcribed copy of it could be found ; and from this 
circumstance, I was at one time doubtful on the subject of it's 
publication. But having succeeded rather beyond my expecta- 
tion, in collecting and uniting it's scattered parts, I determined to 
insert it in the present volume, as exhibiting to the reader, 



(52 

Two daughters death before had snatch'd away, 
Both fresh in life, both beautiful and gay. 
But Virtue, sweet consoling power of Heaven, 
To soothe his age, in Laura's form was given. 
She grew : each beauty blossom'd in her mind ; 
Each limb, each gesture was by Grace design'd. 

together with many marks of a very youthful pen, a flow of 
harmonious numbers, an extent of the inventive faculty, and a 
power of combination in the structure of a poetic fable, not often 
perhaps to be found in a writer, who had exceeded only by a few 
months the completion of her tenth year. In a few, and those 
only very trivial, instances, I have been obliged to correct the 
inaccuracies of the youthful transcriber, the poetess's sister ; 
and in one or two places, where alterations, made by the writer 
herself, have not been sufficiently legible, I have availed myself 
of my own judgment, to adopt the reading which appeared to 
be the best. But the liberties which I have taken with the MS. 
have been small, and of very trifling importance. In one place, 
which I have noticed at the foot of the page, there seems to be a 
few lines wanting ; but I have not ventured to supply them : and 
the termination of the MS. still leaves the poem defective, and 
at some distance from it's perfect close. 



63 

Now seventeen times she'd seen the new-born year; 
Seen the buds open, and the Spring appear: 
When, one still eve, across the mead she stray'd, 
Secure in innocence, of naught afraid. 
Soft silence brooded o'er the sylvan scene, 
And liquid spangles glitter'd on the green. 
Her heart a stranger to the effects of love, 
She thought of nothing but the verdant grove; 
The simple daisy, April's first-born child, 
The fringed carnation, and the primrose mild. 
She stopp'd, well pleased, the night-bird's song to hear, 
Which sweetly seem'd to wooe the enamour'd ear. 
When, lo! swift rushing from a neighb'ring wood, 
A band of men all arm'd before her stood. 
Her lovely mouth, her hands, her feet they bound ; 
Then harshly raised her from the dewy ground. 
To struggle, shriek, or ciy she tries in vain ; 
They bear her trembling, fainting, o'er the plain. 
Her beauteous head reclining on her breast, 
She droops, beneath the storm of woes opprest. 



64 . 

Like a fair lily that, o'ercharged with rain, 

Hangs it's gay brow, and sinks upon the plain. 

Through woods, o'er fertile fields they bend their way; 

While each sad moment Laura deems a day. 

At last a desert waste to view appear'd, 

Where not one flower or kindly fruit was rear'd. 

They placed her here upon the barren ground; 

And here her lovely mouth and limbs unbound. 

She rises, stares around with wild affright, 
And a new prospect opens on her sight. 

High on a lofty mountain's rugged brow, 
Whose top hung threat'ning o'er the vale below ; 
Embossom'd in a deep and pathless wood, 
In darksome majesty a castle stood. 
Here Laura lifts her pity-asking eyes, 
While from her cheeks the living colour flies. 
" Haply," said she, " this mansion's dreary gloom 
" Will view the unhappy Laura's early doom. 
" Why do I shudder? is it death I fear? 
" Torne as I am from all I hold most dear? 



65 

" My much-loved father, country, friends, and home, 

" Ah! what can Laura fear from ills to come?" 

Then, with vain tears and supplicating prayers, 

She tries to make the ruffians feel her cares. 

No sighs, no tears their stubborn hearts can bend: 

An ear of stone to all her plaints they lend. 

She mourns aloud, she rends her flowing hair; 

Then downward sinks in motionless despair. 

" Ah! cruel men," she cries in accents wild, 

" Thus to deprive a father of his child ! 

" Thus to convert pure pleasure into woe ; 

" And rob a girl of all she loved below ! 

" Yet, ah! in pity spare a hapless maid, 

" Who from your hands alone can hope for aid. 

" Torne from the brilliant sun's all-cheering rays, 

" Am I in some lone gloom to waste my days ?" 

" No! beauteous maid!" the men with smiles reply, 
" Our prize, our lovely conquest shall not die. 
" With pleasure crown'd, your days shall sweetly flow. 
" Lull'd in soft luxury, and far from woe. 

F 



66 

" But let us homeward now, my friends, proceed 
" And the fair prize to our great master lead." 

Onward they press'd : but nearer as they drew, 
More gloomy still the hoary building grew. 
The timid Laura, silent, sad, opprest, 
With downcast eyelids wander'd near the rest. 
She starts, she hears the sound of horrid chains, 
And the warm blood runs icy through her veins. 
They cross the drawbridge, pass the iron gate, 
And Laura, trembling, meekly waits her fate. 
They enter: — nought but joy is heard around: 
" The prize is ours !" was now the general sound. 
All throng'd around to see her lovely face ; 
And all declared her fairest of her race. 
Next to a spacious hall they lead the maid, 
With Parian marble paved, and gold inlaid. 
But no gay spectacle could Laura please: 
Her troubled bosom was estranged from ease. 
Now to a seat, all trembling, pale, she Hies i 
And tears fast gather in her speaking eyes. 



67 

The sounds of mirth then caught her list'ning ear; 
Her pulse beats quick, her bosom pants with fear. 
" These sounds," she cries, " to me bring no relief; 
" For what to them is joy to me is grief." 
While thus she spake, the noise still nearer drew — 
The doors unfold — a chief appears in view, 
Who by his haughty grace, and purple vest, 
Seem'd high in rank superior to the rest. 
First he dismiss'd his men, then moving slow, 
Approach'd where Laura sate o'erwhelm'd with woe 
Her hand he took, her heart he bade her cheer : 
And from her eyelid wipe the glistning tear. 
Then said, " No sorrows are for thee design'd: 
" Haste then, and snatch from care thy drooping mind 
" For know, Manfredi will obedience find." 

" To ease me of the griefs," she cried, " I feel, 
" Plunge in my guiltless breast the vengeful steel. 
" Yet see ! before your feet a maiden falls, 
" Who loud for mercy and compassion calls. 
r2 



\ 



" Ah! if you mean I should no longer mourn, 

" Hence let me to my much-loved home return. 

" Let me but now my aged parent view ; 

" Just Heaven shall give that righteous act it's due, 

** And all it's blessings shall be shed on you. 

te But if your heart refuse to feel my cares, 

" And your hard ear be closed against my prayers, 

" Then to her doom the hapless Laura lead ; 

" Or in some lonely dungeon let me bleed." 

These artless words unmoved Manfredi heard : 
His gathering frown the timid damsel fear'd. 
Her hate, declared, his breast with rage inspired ; 
He look'd a threat, and in dark wrath retired. 
Laura, all anguish, stagger'd to a seat, 
There lays her head and rests her weary feet. 

Now mournful twilight fades above her head, 
And sable night with gloom the plains o'erspread. 
All, all is still: no breath salutes her ear; 
No taper comes her heavy eyes to cheer. 



At length three menials stood before her sight, 

And every hand sustain'd a burning light. 

These to the couch where Laura lay proceed, 

And bid her rise and follow where they lead. 

A door they now unfold ; a room appears, 

Whose trembling floor confess'd the power of years. 

There on the downy pillow of a bed, 

Sad, pensive Laura threw her troubled head. 

Scarce through the sky shot Sol's returning ray, -\ 
When Laura rising hail'd the dawning day ; > 

And through the galleries bent her winding way. -* 
The sought-for room she found, and there alone 
Pour'd to the echo her despairing moan. 
The pitying walls her hapless plaints resound, 
And her sad woes are borne to all around. 
Refreshments came, nor did the maid abstain, 
Though hunger now was lost in sharper pain. 
Manfred to fly, again to see her sire, 
To tend her flock, was all her heart's desire. 
f 3 



70 

On the rich board a flood of tears she shed, 

And thought of joys that seem'd for ever fled. 

" At home," she cries, " I knew not how to weep ; 

" I thought of nothing but my snowy sheep. 

" My breast, my youthful breast was free from care ; 

" That breast which now is rent with strong despair. 

" Ah ! when I think of happiness fled far ; 

" Of the clear waters of the long-lost Var: 

( " On whose soft banks so oft I've led my flock, 

" A simple maiden in my virgin frock :)* 

" Of my dear father and my pleasing bower— 

" My sighs will ever heave, my tears will shower." 

Hours in these sad reflexions pass'd away ; 
And Laura saw again departing day. 
When, far more gloomy than the sable night, 
Once more Manfredi stood before her sight. 

* In the MS. this couplet is struck out with a pencil; but I 
have restored it, as pretty, and as characteristic of the writer and 
her Laura. The writer probably disliked the interposition of 
the parenthesis. 



71 

" Surely, ye heavens!" he cried, " that gentle air, -v 

" Those radiant eyes, that face divinely fair, V 

" Were form'd alone to sharpen my despair. J 

" Yet softness' self is spread o'er all her charms; 

" And round each action Grace entwines her arms. 

" Be mine, enchanting girl! be mine alone; 

" And all this palace is to-day thy own. 

" But if thou should'st my suppliant prayers decline, 

" Think not attention shall be paid to thine. 

" Instant I'll bear thee panting to thy doom ; 

" Or in some dungeon thou shalt waste thy bloom." 

He spake: the maiden raised her tearful eyes; 
Cast them to heaven, and sighing thus replies : 
" Yes, great Manfredi ! rather than be thine, 
" The world and all it's pleasures I resign." 
Manfredi hears ; and, furious at the sound, 
Stamping, he gathers all his guards around. 
Then, calming suddenly his boiling heart, 
Commands them with their victim to depart. 
f4 



72 

Obedient to his word the mourning fair 

They seize, and instant from his presence bear. 

Her eyes now closed, her cheek's warm life-blood fled ; 

And death's dark shades surround her languid head. 

Yet not in this deep trance she long remain'd: 

Too soon her sense and sorrows she regain'd. 

But when once more she hoped to view the light, 

Heavens! what a prospect gloom'd upon her sight! 

Damp, dreary walls on every side surround ; 

And deep and horrid silence reigns around. 

Shuddering she thinks she hears Manfredi's voice, 

As with a frowning brow he ask'd her choice. 

" Yes! yes!" she cried " it was my wish to die; 

" Or far for ever from Manfredi fly. 

" When in the grave I'm laid to dust and rest, 

" Then shall no griefs disturb my senseless breast. 

" In death these silent tears to flow shall cease, 

" And I shall sink to never-ending peace. 

" Then, Death! enwrap me in thine icy chains! 

" Haste! stop the crimson life-blood in my veins! 



73 

" Hear my petition ! to my dungeon come ! 

" And snatch me quickly from this darksome gloom! 

" But, ah! my parent, bent with woes and years, 

" Before my eyes in sable garb appears. 

" With tears his child's untimely fate he mourns; 

" And, oh ! no more his hapless child returns. 

" Ye heavens! the cruel thought has pierced my hearty 

" Poor Laura must not yet from life depart. 

" No! let me try this dungeon's gloom to leave; 

«' And this dread night the fatal stroke deceive." 

This said, she softly rose and gazed around; 
But ah ! in vain, no friendly door she found. 
Still, still she sought, but still she sought in vain; 
No opening could the fearful damsel gain. 
All wild with woe she beat her trembling breast, 
And in each action was despair exprest. 
In this deep anguish pass'd the live-long day ; 
The morrow comes, and weeks thus creep away. 
At last she calm'd the sorrows of her heart; 
Resign'd to stay, though dying to depart. 



74 

Yet restless still, a secret door she found; 

Of brass it was, and fasten'd to the ground. 

Then life grew sweet, which late she wish'd resign'd; 

And hope's soft balm dropt healing on her mind. 

Like a young myrtle in some deep retreat, 

Fading, and scorch'd beneath the sun's strong heat. 

High heaven no rain to feed it's bloom had shed; 

No friendly hand was near to dew it's head. 

At length a sweet, refreshing shower descends, 

And vigour to each languid fibre lends. 

Soft zephyrs gently kiss the drooping sweet; 

And verdure springs anew beneath it's feet. 

Thus hope reviving strength to Laura lent ; 

She moves the chains and tries the dark descent. 

Just then a sound confused assail'd her ear, 

And every rising joy gave way to fear. 

" Oh! gracious Heaven assist me! wretched I! 

" Even now the crimson murderers draw nigh ! 

" My hands, my limbs confined with barbarous chains: 

" I feel, methinks, death's agonizing pains!" 



75 

This said, with trembling steps retreats the maid. 
Breathless and pale, of every wind afraid. 
So fears the timid hare when distant sounds 
Announce the dread approach of men and hounds. 
Alarm'd she shrinks, and to some covert flies, 
Whose boughs conceal her from pursuing eyes. 
To Laura now a band of men appears ; 
Whose brazen arms confirm her bosom's fears. 
But when they saw such symmetry of face, 
Such timid meekness, and such angel grace; 
A form, where eveiy beauty was combined, 
Thus in a dungeon's deep abyss confined; 
In wonder fix'd, they gaze on all her charms ; 
Then haste to snatch her from her pale alarms. 
No ruffians these of fierce Manfredi's band, 
The dread and hate of all the neighb'ring land. 
'Twas past: — the terror of his name was o'er; 
His power, his pride, his honours were no more. 
Thus rears a holly-hock it's stately head 
High above all the flowrets of the mead: 



76 

When, lo! a tempest from the sky.descends, 
Bends it's tall neck, and all it's glory ends. 
So Manfred falls, to Pleasure's cheat a prey ; 
Lured by whose voice he trod the downward way. 
A public spoiler, rapine was his trade: 
He broke through all the laws which virtue made. 
At last his injured Chief, indignant grown, 
Bids with his life the wretch his crimes atone. 
This to perform, a chosen band was named, 
Of men, in many a field of battle famed. 
These storm'd the robber's fort, himself they bound ; 
Then quickly search'd each dreary cell around. 
And now the vaults they happily explore, 
Where timid Laura trembled on the floor. 
Heavens ! what sensations then the fair one knew ! 
When foremost of the band Florelio struck her view. 
The sweet companion of her infant days ; 
Who join'd with her in all her sportful plays. 
Blooming in ripen'd youth, in beauty bright, 
Again her playmate stood before her sight. 



77 

His parents dying left their infant heir, 
Their only joy, to good Aubigny's care. 
Beneath his forming hand the boy had grown, 
Endear'd, and made by mutual love his own. 
Laura he loved: with her he pass'd the day; 
And fondly hand in hand with her would stray. 
He gather'd from it's stem each blooming sweet, 
To lay the flowrets at his Laura's feet. 
Thus in affection and in mirthful plays 
Pass'd the sweet April of their happy days. 
But thirst of honour urged the youth to arms: 
He left his home for combat's dire alarms. 
Long had he loved, but kept his love unknown; 
Lock'd from all other breasts, it warm'd his own. 
For three long years in arms Florelio fought; 
The fourth, his Laura and his friend he sought: 
And neither found ; — one haply reft of light, 
And one in woe retired from human sight. 1 

* In this place the MS. seems to have omitted some lines, 



78 

With transport now to free the maid he flew ; 

And o'er her crystal neck a mantle threw. 

The cloak's warm hood confined her nut-brown hair; 

The vest preserved her from the piercing air. 

This done, he oped the gate while thus he said : -* 

** Soon may'st thou reach thy home, angelic maid! V 

" And soon thy troubles be with peace repaid. J 

" There lies thy road: thy guard— thy innocence— 

" Imperious duty will not let me hence. 

which appear to be requisite for the proper exhibition and con- 
nexion of the story. Without undertaking to supply the omission, 
I have contented myself with altering a word or two in the be- 
ginning of the following verse, to obviate the hardness of the 
transition. In a subsequent passage, 

" There lies thy road," &c. 

I have inserted two lines, which are demanded by the subject, 
and are suggested by a couplet, so erased in the MS. as to allow 
me only to form a conjecture of it's import. 



" Still may the path, thou tread'st, with flowers be strew'd, 
" And thy soft step by nought but joy pursued." 

Speaking he bow'd ; and heaving many a sigh, 
Still traced her footsteps with a curious eye. 
And Laura, turning, on his generous head 
Shower'd the rich blessings he on her's had shed. 

The night now darken'd, and the winds howl'd loud, 
A nd heaven was vested in a sable shroud. 
But Laura, joyous from her chains to fly, 
Beheld with cheerful eyes the frowning sky. 
Gladly she heard the clouds in torrents pour, 
The cold winds blow, the angry thunders roar: 
All was to her gay Eden's roseate bloom, 
From the dead horrors of a dungeon's gloom. 
Now through the darkness many a mile she stray'd : 
Till faint and anxious, droop'd the weary maid. 
At last she reach'd the borders of the land, 
Where she had bloom'd beneath a father's hand: 
But all the well-known scene lay wrapt in night, 
Withdrawn by envious darkness from her sight. 



80 

There in a lowly cot she sought repose ; 
And in sweet dreams forgot her former woes. 
There heavenly Peace, with many a softning art, 
Assuaged the pang still burning in her heart. 

Next morning Laura rose at early dawn, 
When radiant dew-drops gemm'd the verdant lawn. 
To the fresh air the flowers their fragrance flung: 
Young lambs play'd round her, and the warblers sung. 
The azure hare-bell, with the violet sweet, 
And maiden daisy bent beneath her feet. 
To please her eye, enchanting Nature dress'd 
The various landscape in her gayest vest. 
She gazed around, a cottage struck her view ; 
In rapture lost her lovely home she knew. 
There while she view'd that long-lost, much-loved 

bower, 
For which her hands had cropp'd each blooming flower; 
There, while that grove, those meads her thoughts em- 
ploy* 

Where her soft infancy had play'd with joy, 



81 

She beard a sad and plaintive voice that said, 
" Whither, ah! whither has my Laura stray'd? 
" The soother of my age ! my darling child, 
" Whose thoughts were guiltless as her features mild ! 
" More spotless than the pure descending snow, 
" Bright and unsullied with the world below! 
" Will she not come her sire from death to save; 
" Or close his eyes and lead him to the grave?" 
She heard — she knew — she flew to his embrace — 
&c. &c. 



The rest of the poem, which conducted the story to it's full 
conclusion is unfortunately lost ; my MS. not enabling me even 
to complete the last couplet 



POEMS 



CHARLES SYMMONS, D.D. 



g2 



POEMS 



MINIATURE PICTURE OF MRS. SYMMONS, 



PAINTED BY S. COTES. 



IN these soft tints, composed with happy care, 
How faint the likeness to the living fair! 
Though each true lineament asserts it's place, 
Our eyes explore in vain that nameless grace, 
The light of character, and soul of face. 
But could thy pencil, Cotes, with nature vie; 
Catch the sweet sense which brightens in her eye; 
g3 



85 

Give her transparent cheek's impassion'd glow; 
Her lip's ripe vermil, and her bosom's snow: 
Where'er it moved, bid charm succeed to charm, 
Till every beauty, by it's magic warm, 
In lovelier life awoke along the line, 
Yet thy Eliza still would yield to mine. 
Thine, but the brightest object of desire 9 
The fair and young might envy or admire. 
Mine, all the good and all the wise approve : 
The wretched bless her, and the tender love. 
Mine, he who knows her most still most commends : 
Calls her the best of mothers, wives, and friends : 
And bids this verse, for all his joys, confess 
Her beauties please him, but her virtues bless. 



S7 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR A SEAT UNDER A DECAYED OAK. 



STRANGER ! suspend thy step, and pausing here, 

Respect the honours of these reverend arms : 
Here, for the painter's eye, the poet's ear, 

The mute has language, and the wither'd, charms. 
As the hoar ruin awes the subject plain 

With majesty of air and pride of brow; 
Fancy arrests and shapes the moral strain, 

Flung in small whispers from the trembling bough. 
" Three hundred winters have unrobed the earth, 

" Three hundred summers deck'd her breast anew, 
" Since the low herb, my rival, saw my birth, 

" And my weak limbs refused to bear the dew. 
" I rose, I strengthen'd, bore my state to heaven, 

" And stretch'd a refuge from the storm and heat: 
G4 



88 

" 'Tis past; I droop! — I fall! — the instruction given, 
" Go! bear it to the young, the proud, the great.* 

* This trifle was given, many years ago, at the time when it was, 
written, to one of the author's friends ; by whom (with the au- 
thor's permission) it was published in a collection of his own 
pieces. As the work however, in which it was first printed, was 
confined to a small circle of subscribers; and as his friend's re- 
putation stands quite aloof from the question, and on independent 
ground, the author hopes that he may be pardoned for it's present 
re-publication. 



SOXG 

IN THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 



Come, Fancy, from thy airy seat, 

With orient colours spread; 
Where earth still laughs beneath thy feet, 

And heaven above thy head. 

Thy voice, the warbling lapse of streams^ 
Or breath that lulls the groves; 

Thine eye, of heaven's empyreal beams. 
Creating as it roves. 

O come ! and with thy wizard art, 
Cause sun-gilt scenes to rise; 

Bid love and pleasure warm the heart. 
And laughter light the eyes. 



so 

SONNET. 

TO MRS. SYMMONS, 

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 



JUDGE of the strains you prompt, accept the Muse, 
Who, studious of your dear applause, essays 
The tragic scene, unheedful of the praise 
A world not her's may give, or may refuse. 
Yes, my Eliza! 'tis j^our smile that strews 
With genial light my life's o'ershadow'd ways; 
Your smile, that warms my heart, unfolds my lays, 
And opens all that here my hope pursues. 
When madden'd nations plunge in guilty war, 
When private foes assail, and friends untrue 
Depart, as worshippers of fortune's star, 

Heart-struck I turn, and taste my balm in you. 
Scared by the tempest's roar, and rushing rain, 
To his loved fostering hearth more fondly clings the 



91 

SONNET. 
TO CAROLINE SYMMONS, 

WITH A COPY OF THE SAME DRAMA, 



ACCEPT these scenes, my child! your partial eyes. 
With the great power that dwells with love alone, 
Will give my dross a lustre not its own; 

And stamp it with a worth that truth denies. 

O early crown'd with poesy's high prize! 

Your lips a seraph from the empyreal throne 
Has touch'd with fire, and to your vision shown 

The world of Fancy, rich with countless dyes. 

Nor only in your head, but in your breast, 
Dispensing gifts is seen the heavenly Grace : 

In that by light, in this by warmth confest, 
It sweetly quickens in your form and face. 

There may it live, till the frail body rest; 

Then with it's kindred soul, regain it's native place!, 



92 



GENIUS. 

AN ODE, 
RECITED AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF 

THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY 

AT THE SHIP TAVERN, IN GREENWICH, 

ON THE FIFTEENTH OF JUNE, 1801. 



I 1. 

NOW Guilt, subversive of the plan 
Of heaven's high Lord, had dimm'd the human scene; 
And Ignorance, with Want of haggard mien, 
Had tome earth's sceptre from the grasp of man. 
In caves and woods the savage lay, 
Or press'd by hunger chased his prey 
O'er wilds, where Nature mourn' d her fertile womb, 
Where sick air languished in the forest's gloom; 



93 

Where the pure stream, design'd to spread 
Health and green vigour o'er the mead, 
Slept in the poison-breathing fen; 
And the shaggd lion ruled from his ensanguined den. 

i 2. 

The Almighty saw dishonour'd earth, 
And, pitying, call'd a Power, who near his throne, 
Before creation's glorious morning shone, 
Before the stars saw Time's mysterious birth, 
Had held to the great Father's sight 
A mirror; where, uncall'd from night, 
Nature in semblance stood before his eye, 
Complete in all her hues and symmetry. 

" Go, Power!" the Sovereign spake, " repair 
" To yon dim world involved in air: 
" Go, with my following grace! display 
" Thy force in aid of man, and re-assert his sway! 



94 



I 3 

The Power of light obey'd ; 
And breaking from the sapphire cloud, 
Which mantling o'er his splendours flow'd, 

His wond'rous form display'd. 

A rain-bow arch'd his brow; 
Eyes starr'd his body of pure chrysolite, 

Eyes never closed, that glow 
With living flame and make heaven's noon more bright. 

The seraph train, beneath his glance, 
Felt stronger inspiration rise. 

New glories gild their holy trance, 
And ampler vision crowds their eyes. 

He pass'd ; and through illumined space 

Shot, thought-wing'd, to his destined place. 

Earth laugh'd, in sudden lustre drest, 

And welcomed her empyreal guest. 
He with the favour'd human few retired, 
Forbade the low, inform'd the towering aim; 



95 

Disclosed more brilliant day : the crowd admired 
Great Genius in his works, and hail'd with loud ac- 
claim. 

ii 1. 

Full of the informing power, the sage 
(Heaven's conscious instrument to raise his kind) 
Unlock'd the deep recesses of his mind, 
And pour'd it's affluence on a prostrate age. 

Hark! 'tis Orpheus sweeps the strings. 

Othrys and Haemus, while he sings, 
Send forth their stony brood: with strange delight 
They hear, they glow, they soften, they unite : 

Each owns, beneath the yoke of laws, 

The private in the public cause. 

Forced by the master-mind's controll, 
The savage grows to man, and feels a human soul. 



So- 



il 2. 

By Science taught, the ploughshare's stroke 
Wounded earth's russet breast, and o'er it roll'd 
Redundant waves of vegetable gold ; 
And purple pleasure from the cluster broke. 

Urged by the loom, the fleece supplied 

The robe of decency and pride : 
The hamlet grew, till rushing to the skies, 
The exulting city show'd her bulwark'd size; 

Her fanes, her palaces, her marts, 

The triumph of her foster'd arts; 

Her breathing marbles, and the strife 
Of mingling light and shade, which warm'd her walls 

to life. 

n 3. 

But Science, not confined 
The toiling hand of art to guide, 
Flash'd with bright stroke on every side; 



97 

And proved the sway of mind. 
The aerial tongue of thought, 
Embodied now, stood fix'd in form and place : 

And the page, wisdom-fraught, 
Bore its great lesson to an unborn race. 
No more the meteor of an hour, 

The sage a lasting light was seen: 
Mind grew on mind with gathering power, 

Though seas or ages roll'd between. 
By Genius raised, the exploring eye 
Resolved the mazes of the sky: 
And, star-led, now the glimmering sail 
On world-wide waters caught the gale : 
Till clime with clime, by commerce blended, meet ; 

And all that earth, and seas, and air afford, 
Is laid, as Nature's tribute, at the feet 

Of Man, by Genius crown'd the world's unquestion'd 
lord. 



nil. 

Now days of power and wealth proceed: 
Science and Art advance with kindling pace, 
To throw on life its last purpureal grace ; 
And Genius glories in his fmish'd deed. 
But soon he saw, with rage and pain, 
The damp, cold portion of his train : 
Saw man with cruel sport defraud of bread 
The living worth, and consecrate the dead. 
" Shall slaves be fed, and my loved few 
" By whom," he cried, " man's empire grew 
" My musing sage, my high-rapt bard, 
" Poor and uncherish'd fade, my smile their sole re- 
ward?" 

in 2. 
" And will not that suffice?" replied 
A heaven-sent voice, " Is Genius yet to know 
" How great the joys his favour can bestow? 
" How little those which pamper sense and pride ? 



99 

" Can the rich tastes at Pleasure's board, 
" Power's lofty seat, or Wealth's bright hoard, 
" Give bliss like thine? etherial Fancy's play 
*" In fields that glow with more than solar day; 
" That world of mind, sublime and free 
" From mists of low mortality, 
" Where all the forms of beauty rove; 
" These thou canst give on earth, and these God gives 
above." 

in 3. 

" But see yon haughty land, 
" That, springing from the encircling main, 
" Seems destined for extended reign, 

" And challenges command ! 

Albion the great! — there mind, 
" Safe in her sunny walks, shall taste the good, 

" To meaner power assign'd; 
" Nor Want's pale image on her heaven intrude, 

H2 



100 

" Her golden toils by all avow'd 

" A nation's blessing, strength, and grace; 
" The rich with patriot zeal shall crowd 

" To pay their offerings to her race. 
" The standard in one generous* hand 
" Shall wave, and Albion's grateful band 
" In deep'ning ranks shall press to throw 
" Their guardian shields o'er letter'd woe. 
" Has Learning foes? — their power shall here be vain. 

" Matchless through air yon eagle wafts his force: 
" The thunder-bearing ship with high disdain, 
" Besieged by savage barks, maintains her stately 
course." 

* David Williams, the Founder of the Institution. 



101 
INSCRIPTION 

FOR A MONUMENT, 

RAISED 

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. FRANCES READ, 

BY HER CHILDREN. 



HERE, with her consort* and his race, in dust, 
Read waits the glorious morning of the just: 
Each claim fulfill'd of daughter, mother, wife, 
She gains from death the immortal prize of life. 
Parent! forgive the filial love, whose tears 
Stain the recording marble which it rears. 

Mrs. Read was buried in her husband's family vault, 
h3 



102 
When your high virtues crowd reflexion's sight, 
Your offspring hail you in your realms of light : 
When thought recals you in the mother's part, 
Sinking, they find weak nature in the heart. 
Fix'd on your heaven, or where your ashes sleep, 
They glow as Christians, or as Orphans weep. 



103 



FANNY. 



FANNY ! when Nature call'd thee into light, 
The Graces, studious of the eventful hour, 

Were near, and each, with smiles divinely bright, 
Gave thee some token of her present power. 

One shaped the aerial finger, finely skill' d 

To animate the canvas or the lyre : 
One dew'd thy lip with nectar thrice distill'd, 

And kindled the soft eye with heavenly fire. 

One on thy fragrant breast her cestus tied, 
And threw her radiant mantle o'er thy form; 

Taught thee with lightest foot the dance to guide, 
And with each act to breath some nameless charm. 
h4 



104 

" Go now, sweet Child!" the harmonious sisters said, 
" Win without toil, and conquer without art : 

" And while our influence shines around thy head, 
" Our, finer power shall quicken in thy heart. 



105 

RECITED AT 
THE ANNIVERSARY 

OF 

THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY. 

MAY 3, 1806. 



WHEN Xerxes fled from Sparta's lifted spear, 
And hid in Susa deem'd the foe too near: 
Removed by conquest far from war's alarms, 
Greece, beauteous queen of science, arts, and arms, 
With conscious pride her matchless sons beheld 
Contend for glory on Olympia's field. 
There the light racer, with aerial soul, 
This moment starts, this moment gains the goal.* 

a The exaggeration in this line is not greater than that in 



10(5 

There the strong wrestler vaunts his limbs, and there 
Herculean muscles launch the disk in air. 
The noble strife applauding crowds survey'd, 
And hail'd the perfect work which Nature made. 
But when, advancing for his lot of fame, 
With musing mien the sage Historian came ; 
Displayed the golden record of his page, 
And spoke the words that breathe from age to age : 
When, seated high amid the gazing throng, 
The Bard, harmonious, roll'd his flood of song, 
Full of the God whom all his strains confess'd, — 
Unwonted rapture swell'd in every breast : 
Each eye was fasten'd on the wond'rous men; 
And Asia's victors were unheeded then. 
The crown was to the brow of Wit assign'd, 
And all allow'd the triumph of the Mind. 

the following couplet from a Greek epigram, on an Olympic 
racer : 

H ya% £$' vtrTrXnyyw n rigy.aro; ejSe t<j axpov 
HiSaev, (jt.ie-o-0) Vtmo'r' hi ?a.Yit>. 

" This youth was seen at the starting place and at the goal, 
" but never in the middle of the course. 



107 

Where'er Society's ripe form has spread, 
The sweetest flowers have circled Learning's head. 
All that in life consoles, sublimes, or charms, 
The stern or beauteous pride of peace and arms, 
Springs from the studious power : by that, untaught, 
Man's force were brutal, and his labours nought. 
The flame may glow without a master's hand : 
Bnt soon it dies, or wildly wastes the land. 
Foster'd and train'd, it lastingly supplies 
Health to the heart, and incense to the skies. 

In heaven, their birth-place, as the Muses sing, 
Their harmonies delight the Eternal King. 
But oft to man, in mercy, from his throne 
He sends the bright intelligences down : 
Bids them reside on earth, celestial guests, 
And live and kindle in some finer breasts. 
There with creative influence to inspire 
The radiant vision, and the thought of fire; 
And thence in light and power to emanate, 
To gladden nations, and to make them great. 



108 

But thoughtless nations ill those gifts repay 
With aiiy praises, and a shadowy bay: 
To Earth's low sons the feast of life assign, 
And leave the Muse's hallow'd race to pine. 
To those, like Jacob, corn and wine are given:— 
To these like Esau, the light dews of Heaven ! 

Ungrateful Britain! that thy lustre glows, 
The central gem on Europe's kingly brows, 
Is not because thy reaching arms are spread 
From the sun's orient to his western bed : 
Is not because the waves obey thy power, 
And Commerce floats thee with a golden shower :- 
No! — 'tis because, when first, by Heaven's decree, 
Thy white cliffs glimmer'd o'er the subject sea, 
The assembled Muses claim'd thee for their own; 
And sovereign Genius made thy land his throne. 
There, to partake the power that each supplied, 
Freedom he wooed, and won her for his bride. 
Then with bright energy, and eye sublime, 
He shot his burning spirit through thy clime. 



109 

From mind to mind the etherial essence flow'd : 
Here spread in judgment, there in fancy glow'd: 
And, as through all the faculties it ran, 
Unfolded and matured diviner man. 
Some with dissecting intellect;, it taught 
To trace the fine anatomy of thought : 
Some to explore the force, opposed to force, 
That holds the circling planets in their course: 
Some to pursue the comet's devious flight: 
Some to untie the colour'd threads of light ; 
And some to pierce to life's conceal'd retreat. 
Deep in the mystic cells of air and heat. 
One pen it tipp'd with magic to controll, 
At will, each passion of the conquer'd soul ; 
Nature in all her various tints to draw ; 
And image worlds which only Fancy saw. 
One mind it lifted on a wing of fire, 
Where never mortal durst before aspire, 
To view the secrets of the dread abyss ; 
And range the sapphire fields of deathless bliss. 



110 

Pleased with the Sons of Soul, from Fame's high shrine, 
Their sovereign bound their brows with crowns divine : a 
And, Britain! then, thy generous soul to prove, 
Resign'd them fondly to thy guardian love. 
Now speak their fortunes from thy grateful hand — 
Of teeming earth was their's some wide command? 
Was their's the sumptuous board; — the embroider'd 

vest; 
With nobles seated, and by king's carest ? 
No! — in yon fane remark their cold reward, 
As the pale marble speaks thy late regard. 
Lifeless to them, thy love embraced their dust, 
And though it gave not bread, yet gave a bust. 
Ungrateful Britain! — but thy shame is past; 
Thy nobler character appears at last. 

a In the first printed copies of this poem, six lines followed at 
this place ; which, though they added to the ideas and imagery, 
have been omitted, as injuring the piece by the awkwardness of 
their interposition. 



Ill 

Urged by the few, who greatly understood 
That letters honour'd were their country's good, 
Awaking Justice takes Compassion's part : 
One stirs reflexion, one impels the heart : 
Faithful to Science and her suffering train, 
That pleads the claim, and this imparts the pain : 
Till, by the associate energies subdued, 
Blend in our ranks the lofty, wise, and good ; 
Till, with the spacious heart and affluent hand, 
The Kingdom's Heir avows our patriot band: 
Shows that, undazzled by the lures of state, 
He knows the genuine secret to be great ; 
And fosters Learning, that her kindled smile 
May swell the pride and blessing of his isle. 

Yes! Britain owns us, as our powers dilate: 
Though her proud eye o'erlook'd our infant state. 
Not often round the sun has wheel'd this earth, 
Since a dim embryo point disclosed our birth. 
The germ of being, with a parent's breast 
Our founder nursed, and brooding warm'd the nest 



112 

True to his care the downy feathers spring; 
And now to heaven expands the vigorous wing : 
From every plume distil ambrosial dews, 
Grateful to man as fostering to the Muse. 

On Carmel's summit when the Prophet sate, 
His bosom beating for the birth of Fate ; 
A sky of brass in flamy hardness spread, 
Glared on his eyes, and smote his hoary head: 
Till a small cloud, arising from the main, 
Cheer'd his sick heart, and spoke his faith not vain. 
With gradual shade the aerial blessing stole 
On the fierce day, and veil'd the burning pole. 
Then prone and rushing, the prolific Power 
Whelm'd thirsty Judah with a vital shower : 
Exhausted realms the liquid vigour quaff'd ; 
And on her hills and vales exulting Nature laugh'd. 



113 

RECITED AT 
THE ANNIVERSARY 

OF , 

THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY, 

MAY 16, 1810. 



WHEN man united first, as Nature drew, 

And mutual strength from mutual weakness grew, 

Rude was the social scheme: — the savage horde, 

For doubtful prey, the woods and wilds explored. 

Hunger and surfeit shared the brutal day, 

And wrapt in gory furs the gaunt barbarian lay. 

Succeeding suns beheld the shepherd-train, 

A happier race, attend the pastured plain. 



114 

With wealth to answer Nature's just demand, 
The vagrant nation pass'd from land to land. 
Free from oppressive cares, with curious eye 
They traced the rolling year and mazy sky. 
Theirs too the Muse; and hill and valley rung 
With the sweet warblings of her infant tongue. 
But when, awaken'd by the ploughshare's toil, 
Leap'd golden Plenty laughing from the soil ; 
Society her complex organs spread, 
The hand mechanic, and the master head : 
Various though one, a many-member'd whole, 
With force to act and wisdom to controll. 
Then from the sage's brain, to gladden earth, 
The Pallas, Science, sprang in glorious birth. 
Heaven-bright her vision, towering was her size j 
She trod the globe, and look'd amid the skies. 
In favour d Greece, her long and loved abode. 
With all her energies of light she glow'd. 
There with the Muses held divine discourse ; 
Gave Peace her arts, and guardian War his force I 



115 

Breathed on the cheek of life a livelier hue, 
And charm'd the mind with beauties ever new. 
Driven thence by vice, without a genial home, 
She dwelt an exile with the pride of Rome. 
Not long: averse from a degenerate race, 
(Science and Servitude can ne'er embrace,) 
She fled from earth: — but in the fateful time; 
When ages now had pass'd of cloud and crime, 
She sped her backward flight ; and, pleased again, 
Was seen illustrious in the walks of men : 
On Britain, as on Greece, in glory shone, 
And gave her Europe's intellectual throne. 

Be nobly grateful then! her race revere! 
And for the parent own the children dear! 
Be mild to faults they share with all their kind ; 
Or faults, the natives of the lofty mind. 
Say! is the learned proud? — the offence is own'd : 
With high-born power, and by the Muses crown'd, 
'Tis hard to bow to earth-engender'd things, 
Forms without souls, and idols hung with strings. 
12 



116 

Say! is the learned poor, yet will not toil; 
Whilst he who seeks for gold must dig the soil ? 
Yes ! 'tis allow'd that gold is eam'd by slaves : 
But bread alone is all the learned craves. 
True! — green luxuriance robes the fen below; 
And bare and russet towers the mountain's brow : 
But there fogs sleep; — here living sunbeams play; 
And neighb'ring heaven is shown by cloudless day. 

Then grant that conscious knowledge lifts to pride ; -\ 
That poor and learned still are near allied:— > 

The man of books is innocent beside. J 

With rigid manners, and conceptions high, 
(Haply unfit for modish company,) 
He sits a sober citizen at home, 
And lends no scandal lighter feet to roam. 
Warm'd and dilated in the classic school, 
His growth of thought disdains the common rule. 
Intent on what is good, and just, and fair, 
His hands the kindly balm of life prepare; 
Unfold the social and the moral plan; 
More closely bind the brotherhood of man; 



117 

Or win from science and the Muse a gem, 
To sparkle in his country's diadem. 

Protect him then ('tis all he asks) and plant 
A seraph-guard to bless his doors from want. 
Smooth be the tenor of his studious hours : 
No care to blight his intellectual flowers, 
Free let him range the paradise of mind, 
To adorn himself, his country, and his kind. 
His and the common cause are truly one : 
The wise allow it, and the grateful own; 
And the just bow, as Equity decrees, 
" That he who lives for all should live at ease." 

But let these claims of Learning be denied : 
Confess her not the general good and pride! 
Cancel the long, high record of her deeds! 
Be deaf as gratitude, or justice pleads! 
Yet stoop to prudence: pause! be wise, and know, 
Wit, urged by want, may prove no idle foe. 
Drops from the pen, as from the Gorgon's veins, 
May spring in serpents from your peopled plains : 
i 3 



118 

Or, strong with more vitality, may yield 
An iron harvest gleaming o'er the field. 
Conciliate then this aweful power of mind! 
No bounds controll it, and no chains can bind. 
Borne on it's paper wings to earth's extreme, 
It flies beyond the Colchian's dragon-team. . 
Of order, peace, and man the appointed friend, 
It smiles, an angel ; — but can frown, a fiend. 

Thoughtful of this, our union had it's birth. 
It stands on justice, and it turns to worth. 
Though melting pity in it's heart may glow, 
It deals not charity to letter'd woe ; 
But while it pays a friend, prevents a foe. 
With Janus-visage, after and afore, 
It thanks past service, and solicits more : 
Acts to unite, for Britain's general weal, 
All Britain's talents, till the Gaul shall feel 
Our gather'd mind yet stronger than our steel. 

Hail to the patriot Prince, whose care attends 
To foster science in her band of friends! 



119 

Patron of letters! heir to Britain's crown! 

Careless of this, and proud of that renown: 

Prone to decline the praise the Muse would give; 

Prompt to deserve, and shrinking to receive. 

And hail ! to hiin/ whose elevated mind 

(Struck with the love of countiy and mankind) 

Pour'd first the streams that now revive the Muse, 

And sparkling o'er the land it's living soul infuse. 

For many an hour, while darkness hover'd round, 

He watch' d with patient eye the impregnate ground: 

Drove from it's pale the birds of night and prey; 

And waited confident for rising day. 

The day has risen ; and proudly crown'd his cares : 

Nobles and princes own his object theirs: 

And greet the man who, true to patriot ends, 

Had shown that Learning's were their Country's friends 

a David Williams. 



14 



120 * 

By a new track led Wit to Wealth's embrace; 
And taught them,— one to cherish, one to grace. 

When the first daring ship explored her way 
To worlds, reposing in the western day : 
In her mid course, as unknown oceans roar. 
And the strain'd vision vainly sought a shore; 
The languid brow and faltering tongue confess'd, 
Despair's cold death had numb'd the general breast. 
Then at the helm erect the leader stood, 
And, strong with science, fearless eyed the flood ; 
Cheer'd the sick heart, and urged the drooping hand, 
And pointed firmly to the viewless land. 
Night often chased the day, and day the night: 
Yet skies and waves were all that met the sight. 
At length blue vapours on the horizon's verge, 
In dim distinction from the main emerge. 
Nearer and nearer as the advent'rers drew, 
The white cliffs glitter and assure the view : 



121 

Then forests rise,— groves wave their humbler shade, 
And all the gorgeous landscape stands display'd : 
Admiring nations throng the wealthy strand ; 
And chieftains press to touch the hero's hand : 
India and Europe blend their mutual store; 
And Ocean severs to unite the more. 



12-2 

SONNET, 
ON THE MARLAIS; 

A MOUNTAIN STREAM, 

WHICH FLOWS NEAR ABERMARLAIS PARK; 

THE SEAT OF MY FRIEND, 

THOMAS FOLEY, Esq. 

REAR ADMIRAL OF THE RED. 



NYMPH of the stream! my fancy's raptured sight 
Views thy fine form quick glancing o'er the scene, 
These tangled shrubs and mossy banks between ; 

And dwells on all thy charms with new delight, 

Sweet Marlais! as thy feet of crystal bright 
Dance on thy pebbly bed, and various green, 
Inlaid with Flora's richest tints, is seen 

To shade thy brow and eyes of liquid light. 



123 

Yes, Marlais! here I pore upon thy charms; 

And listen, as thy whispers softly break 
On my tranced ear, and far from life's alarms, 

Of harmony and love, and LucY a speak: 
And as I gaze and listen, lose awhile 
The world of guilt and pain, and for a moment smile. 

■» Lady Lucy Foley, whose taste has ornamented, and made 
beautiful walks on the picturesque banks of the Marlais. 



124 

SONNET, 
ON PICTON CASTLE; 

THE SEAT OF MY FRIEND, 

LORD MILFORD; 

REVISITED AFTER AN INTERVAL OF MANY YEARS. 



SWEET are thy scenes, O Picton! to my sight. 
Absent so long, while sorrow's painful sighs 
Have struggled from my breast, and from my eyes 

Gush'd her sharp tear, I greet with strange delight 

Thy charms, that thoughts of other days invite ; 
When, gay and lightsome as the vernal skies, 
I saw thy pastures slope, thy forests rise, 

Thy tide expand with traffic's canvas white.* 

* Picton Castle is situated on a navigable branch of Milford haven. 



125 

Yes! those were happier days; but still I feel 
Thy influence at my heart, and own thee dear: 

Yet not thy landscape now, or sweets that steal 
From where bright Summer lingers through the year, 

Yon palace 3 of the flower, supply the charm : 

But friendship proved by age, and found sincere and 
warm. 



» The conservatory, which, with the other buildings for pre- 
serving and maturing the flowers and the fruits of warmer climates, 
is constructed on a great scale in the magnificent gardens of 
Picton. 



PROLOGUE. 

INTENDED FOR 

THE PIC-NIC SOCIETY, IN 1802. 



THE storm hath ceased to rage: the Morning Post 
Hath spent his shafts, and still'd his scribbling host. 
Secure, like one upheld by long renown, 
Great Drury's monarch nods upon his throne : 
Pleased with unquestion'd sway, resigns the care 
Of injured morals and the endanger'd fair: 
Sees us spread vice, and reckless of the feat, 
Leaves us at ease to sing, recite, and eat. 

Peace to the stage's sovereigns ! may they sit, 
Lords still by patent of dramatic wit: 
Enrage, compose the town with matchless art ; 
Lull the tired brain, but spare the rebel heart : 
Shift realms and oceans with theatric wires, 
And brandish at our heads illusive fires. 



127 

Peace to all such ! it is not ours to wage 
An idle war with morals or the stage. 
Can morals dread us? See each virtue stand. 
Fearless of harm amid her friendly band. 
Candour and Truth the gossip-circle guards; 
Temper and Honesty are safe at — cards: 
And Chastity — oh! she can never fall 
In the close grapple of the private ball. 
Then why suspect our power ; arraign our ends ? 
We touch no virtues with such guardian friends. 
The nerve which shakes not in the hand or eye. 
When fame and fortune tremble on the die, 
Exceeds our pride: no characters are flung, 
In neat transition, here from tongue to tongue. 
Even sweet Intrigue, afraid of strange disgrace. 
Flies from the broad disclosure of the place. 
To us, alas! with awkward shame we own,. 
This joy, this wit, this spirit are unknown. 
What can we hope ? how expiate our offence ? 
We aim at intellect, yet court the sense. 



128 

If with some scene of power, or wit refined, 
We dare to search the breast and wake the mind ; 
To the soothed ear it's just demand we pay; 
Blend voice with verse, as music weds the lay. 
Then at the board we share the festive rite ; 
And converse crowns the temperance of the night* 
Well, gentles! will our plan of pleasing please? 
Will Reason, Fashion, smile on nights like these? 
That deign to own us, unallied to vice ; 
This hold from sleep, nor deem us dull or nice? 
One lend her feathers, one her sombre dress, 
That duchesses may praise, or parsons bless? 
Yes! born in tempest, like the God of wine, 
Our growth shall flourish, and our ivy a shine. 



a doctarum hederct pramia pontium — 

Hor. 
The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus, and formed the crown of 
his votaries, as well as of those of the Muses — 

Pastor es hederd crescentem ornate poetam — 

Virg. 



129 

With rising stature, and expanding views, 
In sanguine novelty we wooe the Muse. 
If she be kind, her power will give our feast 
The various sparkle, and the unsating zest. 
If she be kind? — Ye fair! attend our deed! 
She still will follow, when the Graces lead. 

Between the worshippers of these different Powers there was 
formerly supposed to subsist an intimate alliance : and in our 
days, in which intoxication seems in some instances to have been 
mistaken for inspiration, this alliance cannot be regarded as 
wholly dissolved. 

The reader on this occasion is requested not to think of Pope's 
wicked abuse of this sacred evergreen, when he calls it, " The 
owl's ivy," and opposes it to " The poet's bays."' 



130 

RECITED AT 
THE ANNIVERSARY 

OF 

THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY, 

MAY 7, 1812. 



'TWAS night ; and weary on CunaxaV plain, 
Their friends defeated, and their leaders' 1 slain, 

a Near Babylon and the Euphrates : where the decisive battle 
was fought between the youngerCyrus and his brother, Artaxer- 
xes Mnemon, in which, by the death of the former, the throne of 
Persia was established to the latter. The Persian army of Cyrus, 
with which the Greeks were united, was defeated in this battle ; 
and it's leader, Ariseus, made his peace with the victor by aban- 
doning his Grecian auxiliaries ; who, from their number, have 
been emphatically called the ten thousand, or the myriad. 

b The five chiefs, under whom the Greeks enlisted and fought 



131 

The Grecian myriad camp'd : on every side 
Innumerous Asia pour'd her hostile tide : 
'Twixt them and Greece, a world embattled lay ; 
And hope shrunk trembling from the dreadful way. 
While death, or deadlier claims await the choice, 
Sunk was each heart, and falter'd every voice. 
Then, rich in science, with illumined air 
The young Socratic* rose, and chased despair. 
His glowing lip the powers of virtue warms : -v 

Spears clash on shields ; the tents resound, To arms ! > 
And struck Euphrates rings with stern alarms. ^ 

on this occasion, having been invited after the battle to a confer- 
ence by the Satrap Tissaphernes, were by him treacherously de- 
tained and murdered. 

a Xenophon, who was at this time very young, and nothing 
more than a volunteer in the Grecian army, without rank or of- 
fice. His simple and elegant narrative of this expedition and 
retreat, is a masterpiece in it's peculiar class of composition, and 
is rivalled only by the Commentaries of Julius Caesar. 
k2 



132 

Through fields of gleaming steel, o'er steep and plain, 
Where the fleet Parthian bends his bow in vain, 
The sage victorious leads their homeward course, 
And proves that mind is lord of barb'rous force. 

Bright from the Athenian forge, with polish'd sway 
The sword of Pella a spread diffusive day. 
By Homer fired, by Aristotle taught, 
The victor held the world within his thought. 
Where'er he march'd, the Muses march'd along, 
And threw their treasures mid the prostrate throng. 
New seas, explored, for traffic's sail expand : 
New cities glitter on the desert land : 

- * Alexander, born at Pella in Macedon ; who, as the pupil of 
Aristotle, of the Athenian and Socratic school, may properly be 
regarded as deriving his literature from Athens. The diffusion 
of Grecian letters, in consequence of the conquests of this won- 
derful man, with his magnificent plan of uniting a large portion of 
the human race in one grand political association, enlightened 
with science, and bound together, while it was enriched, by 
commerce, is too generally known to require any particular 
illustration. 



133 

And arts, with empire, stretch their golden reign 
From Helle's wave to India's utmost main. 

By science form'd to lead in peace or war, 
See Julius shine, resplendent as his staiv 
The sword and pen alike adorn his hand, 
And the Muse lifts him to the world's command. 

When Latian guilt the wrath of Heaven awoke, 
And Rome was bow'd beneath the Vandal yoke; 

" Mlcat inter omnes, 



Julium sidus, velut inter ignes 

Luna minores." 

(Hor. i. 12.) 
Suetonius records, in his Life of Julius Ccesar, (cap. 88.) that, 
during the celebration of the games, consecrated by Augustus to 
the memory of his adoptive father, a comet appeared, which 
shone with remarkable brilliancy for seven nights, and was im- 
agined by the snperstition of the people to be the soul of Caesar, 
received among the Gods. Hence a star was struck on the coins 
of this great man ; and many of the classic writers, either poeti- 
cally or historically, refer to the star of Caesar, the Julium sidus 
of Horace, and the Caesaris astrum of Virgil. 

k3 



134 

Scath'd by the with' ring tempest, Learning died ; 
And bursting outrage whelm'd the Muse's pride. 
Then perish'd too the pride and charm of life : 
With ignorance reign'd weakness, want, and strife. 
In feodal gloom the heavy nations lie, 
Oppress'd by power, and torne by anarchy. 
Peace knows not calm, war bleeds without effect ; 
Laws, strong to crush, are powerless to protect: 
Whilst hovering o'er, to give the blacker night, 
Hangs Superstition, and prevents the light. 

Earth shakes convulsed, the eternal mountains nod, 
Storms rend, and fires devour before the God. 
But when he comes, storms, fires, and earthquakes cease, 
And by the still, small voice is known the God 

OF PEACE. 

Now Learning, roused from ages of repose, 
Mounts on her car, and kindles as she goes. 
Where tread her steeds of light, with rich inlay 
Spontaneous flowers enamel all the way. 



135 

Man springs to life beneath her quick'ning glance: 
Before her, hand in hand, the Graces dance. 
Arts, Commerce, Freedom/ with elated mien, 
Attend her triumph, and confess their queen. 

a Personal, as well as political freedom, in it's extension to the 
lowest order of the community, must be regarded as one of the 
most unquestioned results of revived learning, and it's consequent 
civilization. During the dark ages, notwithstanding the power- 
ful opposition of the clergy, who much to their honour very 
strenuously resisted this execrable and anti-christian abuse, 
predial and domestic slavery prevailed in every nation of Europe ; 
and in our island slaves continued for some centuries to form an 
article of commercial export. In proportion to the progress of 
general information, this abominable outrage on man experienced 
a gradual decline, till under the Tudors (but not by the influence 
of that hateful dynastry, or by any positive act of the legislature), 
it ceased finally to exist. I speak with immediate reference to 
England: but in other parts of Europe, the effects in this in- 
stance of diffusive knowledge have been precisely and uniformly 
the same. In Poland and Russia, where the progress of learn- 
ing has been very small, predial slavery still subsists; and in 
Turkey, which is yet plunged in Scythian barbarism, slavery of 
every description continues in undiminished force. 
K4 



136 

Behind is dragg'd a base and captive train : 

There crown'd Oppression struggles with his chain : 

There ruffian Violence, unequal Law, 

And night-born Superstition cease to awe. 

To Britain thus in laurell'd pride she tends; 

And here, in pomp, the Capitol ascends. 

Here dooms her captives, triple bonds their fate ; 

Here hangs her trophies, here completes her state. 

Britain! in homage to her feet repair: 
Infold her offspring with a parent's care: 
Glow at their merits! blush when they must sue! 
Awake to justice! to thyself be true! 
Think, when her sons extend the imploring hand, 
Thy shame they speak, and plead thy fame's demand. 
Their toils thy riches, their renown thy pride, 
Thou — thou art injured by their claim denied. 
Haste then, prevent the suppliants, nor delay 
To twine with votive gold the hallow'd bay. 



137 

In Anna's days, when glory crown'd our land, 
When Marlborough 3 conquer'd, and Godolphin plann'd, 
The generous statesman held the Muses dear, 
And letter' d Genius whisper' d at his ear: 
The wit conversed familiar with the lord ; 
Nay, sate his equal at the Council-board. 
Augustan days! ah! quickly doom'd to fly, 
And leave the Muse to praise and poverty. 
Frown'd from the court, disclaim'd by prince and peers, 
She felt a winter of a hundred years. 
At length she sees benigner seasons rise. 
And drink's restoring influence from your eyes; 

* I mean to designate it this place, by it's illustrious adminis- 
tration, the whole of that brilliant period in our history, when 
the great of both parties, whig and tory, were eminent for their 
patronage of literary merit : when Swift, Prior, Locke, Addison, 
Newton, &c. were either the conlidential friends of ministers, or 
were in public office and ministers themselves. 



138 

Beholds a people her's, her prince in power; 
Bounds with fresh nerves, and hails the inspiring hour. 
Great Prince! proceed, and as her friend be known; 
(That name can give renown beyond thy throne :) 
Seek her true sons, where merit shrinks from sight; 
And lead them blushing to adorn the light. 
But spurn the slaves that still on greatness wait, 
Whose pens are sold to flattery, faction, hate. 
Things of an hour, that buz, and sting, and die ; 
Dirt's insect-brood, Corruption's family. 
Crush these; but go! by taste and genius led, 
Rouse living worth to emulate the dead. 
Warm into glorious birth thy Britain's mind ; 
To teach, sublime, refine, and charm mankind : 
Spread in new Bacons intellectual day; 
In other Miltons tread the empyreal way; 
Through Fancy's worlds in other Shakespeares pierce; 
In other Newtons range the universe: 
Till mingling beams like stars, her race unite 
To cover Albion with a blaze of light. 



139 

Be ours, my Friends! the princely patriot's plan, 
Zealous with him, for Learning, Britain, Man. 
Tis not in one, howe'er adorn'd and great, 
To stretch the Muse's sceptre o'er the state. 
The general hand must plant her in the throne : 
The people's love must make the realm her own. 
When in the Gothic cloud our isle was drown'd, 
Even Alfred's sun threw no effulgence round. 
The noble river, as it's waters glide, 
May robe with green the pasture by it's side; 
But from the drops, that cluster on her face, 
Extended Earth imbibes her living grace. 

This Williams 1 saw, and struck with Learning'* 
charms, 
Essay'd to place her in the Nation's arms. 
For the high fair to gain an equal dower ; 
To guard her line from Fortune's adverse power : 
With a strong spell to fence the laurell'd brow, 
Sacred from want's, as from the lightning's blow : 

a David Williams. 



140 

To seat the man, by Nature's charter great, 

At Nature's banquet, smiling and elate ; 

His lot no more, in bloated grandeur's train, 

To warble to his lyre a menial strain ; 

But free and proud, as Heaven's distinguished son, 

To feel the whole his patron, not the one: 

For this, unconscious of a private end, 

Our founder wrought; and, as his country's friend, 

Still fed the spring, that softly might impart 

Health to the letter'd pilgrim's fainting heart : 

And rousing him to power, might then expand, 

Swell'd by a streaming region, o'er the land; 

To brood with genial wave, till all below, 

Enrich'd and ripen'd, with production glow ; 

And Britain, bright through centuries of praise, 

Bloom one great garden of immortal bays. 



141 



SLEEP. 



FROM THE CARMIXA QUADRAGESIMALIA. 



SOMNE levis! quanquam certissima mortis imago, 

Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori — 
Alma Quiesf optata veni, nam sic sine vita, 

Vivere quam suave est, sic sine morte mori. 

Though Death's strong likeness in thy form we trace, 
Come, Sleep! and fold me in thy soft embrace! 
Come, genial Sleep! that sweetest blessing give, 
To die thus living, and thus dead to live. 



142 



INSCRIPTION. 

BY CARDINAL BEMBO, 

ON THE STATUE OF A SLEEPING NYMPH, 

IN A GROTTO NEAR THE MARGIN OF A SPRING. 



HUJUS Nympha loci, sacri custodia fontis 
Dormio, dum placidce sentio murmur aquce. 

Parce precor, quisquis targis cava marmora, somnum 
Rumpere, sive bibas, sive lavere, tace ! 

Here lull'd, while listening to the vocal wave, 
I sleep, the virgin Genius of the cave. 
Guest of my marble bower! whoe'er thou art, 
Spare my repose, drink! bathe! be still! depart! 



143 



FOURTH BOOK OF THE ^ENEIS. 



ARGUMENT AND PREFACE. 



i£NEAS, whom the tradition of Rome represented as her re- 
mote founder, and to whom the Julian family affected to trace 
it's origin, leaving Troy when that city was taken by the Greeks, 
sailed with a numerous band of his countrymen for Italy ; whither 
he was commanded by the concurring voice of various oracles 
to direct his course, and where he was assured, by the same 
divine authority, that he should found a dominion destined to 
extend over the earth. In his voyage, he is surprised by a tem- 
pest, raised by the enmity of Juno, and is thrown, with his shat- 
tered fleet, upon the coast of Africa ; where Dido (or Elissa) 
flying from the vengeance of her brother, Pygmalion, the king of 
Tyre, had recently built Carthage, the future rival of Rome. By 
this young queen the Trojan Prince is hospitably entertained ; 



144 



and, in consequence of the immediate agency of the God of 
love, becomes the object of her most impassioned regard. At 
her request, he relates the circumstances of the taking of Troy, 
with those of his own subsequent adventures till the time of his 
being driven upon her coast ; and immediately on the conclu- 
sion of this narrative opens that part of the poem, a translation 
of which is here offered to the reader. 

Of the twelve books of the JEneis, the fourth is eminently dis- 
tinguished by it's powerful delineation of human character and 
passion ; and such is the effect of the master's art in this con- 
summate piece, that it must necessarily be felt and acknow- 
ledged by every poetic and sensitive mind. The attempt of the 
poet to reconcile the desertion and consequent ruin of a loving, 
generous, and confiding woman, with that excellence, which he 
is desirous of attributing to his hero, must be allowed to be 
delicate and arduous ; and a doubt of it's entire success may not 
unreasonably be entertained. Though iEneas acts under the 
command of the gods, we cannot heartily forgive his conduct, 
and to like it is impossible. His. submission to the mandate of 
Jupiter is not sufficiently reluctant ; and his obligations to the 
queen are of too strong and too affecting a nature. We may 
assent to his attribute of 'pious,' but we must feel him to be 
cold-hearted, inflexible, and cruel. Our pity, in short, lingers 



145 



with the expiring queen, and our execrations pursue the flying 
sails of her perfidious lover. But whatever may be objected on this 
occasion to the management of the poet, to the reader it can be 
of little consequence which of the parties is condemned or which 
pitied, when, under the ascendency of genius, his bosom is made 
to feel that excitement of passion and sensibility, which, effected 
by the imitation of poetry, is always the cause of the most ex- 
quisite delight. 

In this book of his poem, Virgil is supposed to have contracted 
important obligations to the Argonautics of Apollonius Rhodius : 
from which circumstance, and his avowed imitations of Homer, 
his inventive faculty has been too much depreciated ; and the 
palm of genius, planted on his brow by the hand of successive 
ages, has been attempted to be wrested from him by some of 
the critics of the present day. One of these writers has pro- 
ceeded so far as to intimate a wish, that the author of the jEneis, 
confining his ambition to translation, had indulged the world 
with nothing more than a Roman ilias or Odyssey. But the ex- 
pression of such a wish can derogate only from him who formed 
it : for it is impossible for any reader, of critical comprehension 
or of poetic susceptibility, to reflect on the whole fabric of the 
JEntis, or to peruse it's more finished parts, without being 



146 



struck with that power of mind which could invent and combine 
it's magnifieency of plan, or with the richness of that poetic fancy 
which could throw so much lustre over a multitude of it's pages. 

Virgil borrows largely (and rather with an ostentation of the 
fact) from the affluence of the Grecian Muses : but what he 
thus takes he converts into the means of his own wealth ; and 
with the materials of others he completes his own grand and 
original design. The bricks may be drawn from other buildings ; 
but the stately edifice, to the rearing of which they are thus 
compelled to contribute, is not indebted to them for it's symme- 
try and beauty ; neither is the merit of the architect in any degree 
diminished by the circumstance of his not being the maker of 
these subordinate parts of his structure. He may even borrow 
an architrave or a capital sculptured by the chisel of a former 
artist ; and, if the ornament be blended harmoniously with the 
work into which it is admitted, the master will be praised, rather 
than censured, for thus ably availing himself of the operations of 
preceding art. 

If it were necessary to illustrate a position which is so obviously 
clear, I would adduce the instance of this book of the JEntis, 
which is now immediately before us. 



147 

In the third book of his Argonautics, Apollonius represent? 
Medea, the young Colchian princess, as suddenly struck with 
love, for the leader of the Grecian adventurers, by the shafts of 
the god Eros (or Cupid), who acts on the solicitation of his 
mother, Venus; and the struggles of the royal virgin against 
this inflicted passion for a stranger, which cannot be indulged 
without outrage to propriety and hostility to her father, are 
very forcibly exhibited in the page of the Grecian poet. In 
Virgil, Dido is inspired with love by the same celestial power, 
acting also under the influence of his mother; and the object of 
the lady's passion is likewise a stranger, brought unexpectedly 
to her palace, and requiring her assistance for his protection. 
Thus far the resemblance is perfect between the victim of 
love, as drawn by the Grecian and the Roman ; and thus far the 
latter unquestionably borrowed from the former: but here 
the similitude is at an end ; and, having asserted his dominion 
over the property bequeathed to him by his predecessor, the 
Roman proceeds to accomplish his own purposes by the sugges- 
tions, and with the powers of his own superior mind. The cha- 
racters of Medea and of Dido are as different as the situation 
and circumstances into which they are thrown ; and the Colchian 
virgin, flying with her lover from the resentment of her betrayed 
father and country, is in no respect the prototype of the haughty 
Tyrian queen, who, in the paroxysm of injured love, of dis- 

12 



148 



dain and despair, devotes herself, with all the awful ceremonies 
of religion, to the expiation of the sword. Even to those subor- 
dinate incidents, which he has evidently taken from the Grecian 
page, the Augustan poet has imparted an originality of character, 
sufficient to vindicate the power of his own inventive faculty. 
In Apollonius, the urchin God of love is induced by his mother, 
with such promises as were adapted to influence a child, to wound 
the daughter of iEetes ; and he performs what he has undertaken 
by flying to the palace, confronting the virgin, and piercing her 
with his shaft. In Virgil, he is brought to accomplish the pur- 
poses of his mother by motives more dignified, more conse- 
quential, and more immediately connected with the action of 
the poem. It is, in short, to assist his brother against the 
hostile power of Juno, and to save him from the ruin which it 
immediately threatened, that he consents to assume the person 
of Ascanius, and in this disguise to infuse his poison into the 
veins of the Carthaginian queen. In Apollonius, Venus is en- 
gaged to obtain the intervention of her son by the mere request 
of Juno and Minerva, without the pretence of any interest of 
her own to involve her in the transaction. In Virgil, she acts for 
the preservation of her son, to fulfil the great counsel of Jupiter 
and the Fates, and to prevent the enmity of the queen of heaven 
from intercepting the imperial destinies of Rome. The agency of 
these celestial powers, the mother and the son, -is incorporated 



149 



with the leading object of the poem, and, together with the 
whole episode of Dido, is made essentially subservient to it's 
vital perfection. 

If it were within the scope of my present design to defend 
Virgil generally from the charge of deficient invention as a poet, 
I could produce the sixth book of his magnificent epic, as an illus- 
trious evidence in his favour : for in this book, in which he is 
supposed to follow the steps of Homer, as in the fourth he is 
said to trace those of Apollonius, he has raised on a simple hint, 
suggested by the Grecian bard, (for the necyomantia, in the 
Odyssey, can be regarded in this instance only as a hint,) a great 
and sublime fiction, conducive to the prime purpose of his poem, 
and proving itself incontestibly to be the offspring of grand and 
original conception. But I must confine myself to that portion 
of the Roman epic which I have translated ; and in this, the 
poet has made a proud display of the transcendency of his genius. 
Apollonius must be acknowledged to have drawn the passion of 
love with a masterly hand, and his work to be embellished with 
many curious and delicate touches: but compared with Virgil 
on the same subject, the Grecian shrinks to a subordinate size, 
and his lustre is thrown into shade. The Roman acts with an 
inferior language ; but he animates it with a superior soul. — 
Whenever he condescends to borrow, the passage becomes en- 

L 3 



150 



nobled by the deed ; and where his pen touches, the material 
is instantly converted into gold. Of this, every scholar who is 
capable of remarking on the parallel places of the two poets must 
be sensible; and every critic, who can feel and can judge, will 
be as decided in his general preference as myself. We may ad- 
mire many passages of Apollonius : but as Virgil leads us through 
the labyrinth of passion, from it's commencement to it's fatal 
termination, we are compelled to follow him with interest, with 
agitation, and with sympathy. 

Irritat, mulcet, falsi s terroribus angit, 

Ut magus. 

Of my translation of this inimitable piece, I feel it awkward 
to say any thing. It may perhaps require apology : but apology 
will as soon set a broken bone, or give action to a paralytic 
limb, ashealthe defects of a poem ; or recommend what professes 
to please, without the requisite powers of pleasing, to the attention 
and favour of the reader. If my version be compared by the scholar 
with the original, it will probably be pronounced faithful to the 
sense, and possibly, not false to the spirit of the Roman page ; 
but in all the beauties of diction, it must necessarily be con- 
demned as lamentably inferior : if it be perused by the English 
reader, with reference to the only two translations of the same 
work which are now worthy of notice, those I mean by Dryden 
and by Pitt, it may be regarded as not destitute of a sort of rela- 



151 



tive merit ; and may perhaps be declared to be more vigorous 
than one of these versions, and more equal than the other ; while, 
as the representative of the original, it may claim the praise of 
more fidelity than either of them. 

In all the pages of the great Dryden occur passages of su- 
preme beauty and spirit, the produce of a bright and ardent 
mind : but while we are admiring some of his unrivalled eleva- 
tions, we are frequently condemned to pity or be angry with 
him for the consequences of negligence or haste; and to lament 
that he can fall as low as he has shown himself capable of rising 
high. The varied harmony of his numbers, however, is always 
fascinating to a poetic ear ; and throughout his composition there 
is a pervading energy, which enforces attention and commands 
respect. How Pitt could ever be preferred to him, as the trans- 
lator of Virgil, seems to be extraordinary, and not very honour- 
able to the taste of that age in which the more modern version 
was produced. In the construction of his verse, Pitt is a studious 
imitator of Pope : but in vigour and harmony he is much inferior 
to his great master, and is not qualified to stand even in the first 
class of his school. In his character of translator, Pitt is not less 
licentious than Dryden, at the same time that there is a littleness, 
a monotony, and a sort of foppish finery in his composition, 

L 4 



152 



which is at direct variance with the simple, the varied, the forci- 
ble, and majestic style of his Roman original. With all his ine- 
qualities and faults, Dryden never fatigues us ; but having read 
a few pages of Pitt, we close the volume, and are not solicitous 
again to open it. While any writer, in short, of moderate power 
and with a cultivated taste, might aspire to be the competitor of 
Pitt, even the poet of genius may look with despair at the unat- 
tainable excellence of Dryden. 

No book of the JEneis, and no production of the classic Muses, 
has invited so many attempts at translation, as this which exhi- 
bits the amorous and tragic passions of the queen and founder of 
Carthage : but these translations (I speak only of those in our 
own language) are now either wholly lost, or, in consequence of 
their obsolete dialect, are studied solely by the patient and cu- 
rious antiquary. The versions by Phaer, Gawin Douglas, and 
Surrey, have all had their day of merited applause : but time, by 
it's effect upon our unstable language, has extinguished their po- 
pularity, and given their laurels to be preserved in the dry 
page, or, what may properly be called, the hortus siccus of the 
historian of English poetry. Of a later translation of this book 
by the joint labours of Sydney Godolphin, and Waller, no par- 
ticular notice can be required, as it's want of merit of every kind 
must render it altogether unworthy of any reader's attention. 



153 



I know not whether it may be of consequence to observe that 
the version, now submitted to the public, approaches more nearly 
to the brevity of the original than that of either of my immediate 
predecessors; being shorter by fifty-nine lines than Dryden's, and 
by sixty-four than Pitt's. If regard be paid to the relative lengths 
of the classic hexameter, and of our five-feet iambic, my transla- 
tion will be found to exceed the length of the original only by a 
very few lines : and, when we reflect on the compressibility of 
the Roman language, and the peculiarly condensed and vigorous 
style of the great Roman epic, it may be admitted as a species of 
merit in the translator, to have included the ideas of his origi- 
nal within the same, or very nearly the same, compass of ex- 
pression. 

Before I conclude, I must, under a sense of justice, acknow- 
ledge the benefit which this translation has derived from the 
taste of my friend, Francis Wrangham. With his accustomed 
kindness he attended to my blotted MS. ; and of the corrections 
which his refined judgment suggested, I have adopted some, and 
perhaps have reason to regret that I have not availed myself of 
more. 



154 



FOURTH BOOK OF THE iENEIS. 



BUT now the wounded Queen in every vein 
Feels the soft fire, and thrills with secret pain. 
The chief's high valour and high race from Jove 
Press on her thought, with power that wakens love. 
His looks, his words live settled in her breast; 5 

And throbbing cares withhold her limbs from rest. 

When now the morn, in orient light array'd, 
Had chased the dewy night's incumbent shade: 
Scarce knowing what she said, the royal fair 
Thus to her much-loved sister breathed her care : 10 
" Anna! my sister! ah! what dreams affright 
My trembling spirits, and disturb the night? 
What wondrous man is this,— our stranger guest! 
In form a hero, with a hero's breast! — 



155 

Sprung from the Gods, fame truly speaks his birth; 15 

For fear still taints the common sons of earth. 

What wars' exhausted rage his lips relate! 

How nobly has he fought with hostile fate ! 

If the fix'd purpose of my soul could move; 

If now my thought could bend to wedded love; 20 

If, it's first passion wrong'd by death's divorce, 

My heart could feel desire's reviving force, 

Not sick and shrinking from the nuptial bed, — 

To this one fault it's weakness might be led. 

For, Anna, I will own, since heaven decreed 25 

Sychaeus by his brother's steel should bleed, 

This man alone could urge my faltering will, 

And wake my former flame to warm me still. 

But earth ingulf me, or the hand of Jove 

Strike me with thunder from the realms above, 30 

Deep — deep in darkness with the shades to lie, 

Ere I will break thy laws, fair Chastity ! 

He who first had my love shall ever have 

That faithful love, the solace of his grave!" 



156 

She spoke, and on her sister's bosom shed 35 

The bursting tear, whilst Anna fondly said: 
" O dear to me beyond the light of heaven! 
Shall all thy youth to fruitless grief be given? 
Denied to taste the sweets that love bestows, 
And feel the joys a mother only knows? 40 

Think you that deeds of ours can touch the dead, 
Or jealous cares infest the buried head? 
What though the sons of Lybia, or of Tyre, 
Have failed to wake thy sense to fond desire! 
What though Iarbas justly met thy scorn, 45 

And the dark chiefs in martial Afric born: 
To love more grateful wilt thou not relent; 
Blind to the state, that presses thy consent ? 
Ah ! think thee where thine infant city stands : -v 
Gaetulia here arrays her warlike bands; V50 

And here the unrein'd Numidian scours the lands. J 
There spreads a lifeless region scorch'd and bare ; 
And Barce pours the tide of slaughter there. 



157 

"Why should I name your brother's threat' ning rage ; ' 
All Tyre in arms, and ready to engage? 55 

Sure to our ports the fleet of Troy was driven 
By fav'ring Juno with the breath of Heaven. 
From spousals such as these, to glad your eyes, 
How proudly would your state in grandeur rise! 
Enforced with Trojan arms, our Punic power 60 

In glory o'er the subject earth would tower. 
Propitiate then the Gods; implore their leave; 
Spread the gay banquet, and the hours deceive. 
Pretend delays: now winter's rage deforms 
Old Ocean's face; and now, involved in storms, 65 
Orion hovers o'er the inclement air ; 
And now the shatter'd navy claims repair." 
With words like these she fed her sister's flame; 
Resolved her doubts and chased her lingering shame. 

First they frequent the fanes, and peace implore 70 
From the blest Gods, with prayer and holy gore. 
To Ceres, Phcebus, and the God of wine, 
They slay the chosen sheep with rites divine. 



158 

But chiefly Juno, that imperial power 
Who holds her influence o'er the nuptial bower, 75 
Their vows address : to her the beauteous queen, 
With lifted eyes and supplicating mien, 
As her fair hands the sacred goblet hold, 
On the white heifer's forehead pours the gold. 
Before the Gods, with copious slaughter fed, SO 

And reeky shrines, she walks with stately tread: 
Restores the day with victims, and inquires 
In the quick entrails, ere the beast expires. 
Ah ! blind to fate the seers! can shrines or prayers 
Relieve her phrensied mind, or calm her cares? 85 

An eating flame through all her vitals steals, 
And deep within the living wound she feels. 
She burns, and through the city's crowded ways, 
Rapt in lone thought, with wildering step she strays. 
Like the struck deer, in Cretan forests found, 90 

Who feels the unconscious shepherd's flying wound- 
She scours the plain; she struggles through the wood; 
But the fix'd arrow still exhausts her blood. 



159 

Now Dido leads ./Eneas to behold 
Her streets, and walls, and stores of Tyrian gold : 95 
And oft her tender purpose tries to speak : 
But on her faltering lips the imperfect accents break. 
Again the feast she seeks, as day retires ; 
Again the hero's storied deeds requires: 
Hangs on his speech again with breathless joy, 100 
And drinks with raptured ears the woes of Troy. 
When all depart; and now the dimmer moon, 
And westering stars have pass'd night's heavy noon, 
And urge to slumber — sorrowing and alone 
She treads the desert floors, and heaves the groan. 105 
Flung on the vacant couch he lately press'd, 
Absent she sees and hears her absent guest: 
Or, as Ascanius in her lap she holds, 
The father imaged in the boy infolds. 
Ah! blest! could she deceive with arts like these 110 
The mighty power of love, and steal to ease! 
Dead are her public cares : her youth no more 
Are train'd to arms: no longer swells the tower: 



160 

The ports lie open; walls forget to rise; 
Check'd are the bulwark's threats, and cease to climb 
the skies. 115 

When now submitted to the raging pest, 
With fame and duty humbled in her breast, 
The regal fair she saw, the wife of Jove 
Approach'd, and thus address'd the queen of love: 119 
" Rare praise have ye achieved, high trophies won! ~\ 
Proud is your triumph with your conquering son! > 
By fraud, two gods one woman have undone ! ) 

Your ends I know : ye fear'd my rising state ; 
And envied Carthage her imperial fate. 
But, Goddess! shall our warfare never cease? 125 

May not these nuptials seal our lasting peace? 
Yours is the palm; fulfill'd your whole desire, 
Dido consumes a victim in your fire. 
Here let us then preside with equal sway: 
Let the proud Queen her Phiygian lord obey; 130 

And, while with me the sceptre you enjoy, 
Dower with her Tyrian realm your sons of Troy." 



161 

To her (for she perceived the deep intent, 
Italia's fate of empire to prevent, 
And plant the glorious throne on Lybia's land) 135 
Venus replied: " 'Twere madness to withstand 
Your profFer'd union, and to peace prefer 
With heaven's high Queen an everlasting war; 
If fortune haply smile upon our deed — 
But lost I wander as the Fates may lead ; 140 

And wrapt in night their counsels: if the Sire 
Of Gods permit, that Troy should blend with Tyre, 
The people grow incorporate and one; — 
If such the will of Jove — that will be done. 
His consort thou, 'tis thine to move his mind : 145 

Proceed ! my aid shall wait submiss behind." 
" That care," said regal Juno, " shall be mine. 
Now learn the means to compass our design. 
Soon as to-morrow's sun shall wake the dawn, 
And light the sparkle of the dew-dropp'd lawn, 150 
iEneas and the enamour' d Queen prepare 
Their train and spirits for the sylvan war. 

M 



162 

O'er these, when eager on the chace, my power 

Shall roll the thunder, and diffuse the shower. 

Then, when their comrades fly, one cave shall hide 155 

The Trojan leader and his Tyrian bride. 

I will be there; and, of your aid secure, 

Will join the pair and make their union sure: 

Their nuptial this." — Assenting Venus smiled, 

Well pleased to see the fraudful Power beguiled. 160 

Aurora now rose blushing from the main: 
With the first beam, the youth's assembled train 
Forth from the city rush, and ready stand, 
With nets and hunting spears, a chosen band. 
Massylian horsemen shake the trampled ground, 165 
And close behind attends the fme-nosed hound. 
The Punic princes at the palace-gate 
Their sovereign, ling'ring in her chamber, wait: 
Whilst her fierce steed, in gold and purple gay, 
Foams on the bit, and chafes at the delay. 170 

At length she issues with majestic mien, 
And a rich menial crowd surround their queen. 



163 

A cloak of Tyrian dye, whose border shone 
With painted flowers, was o'er her shoulders thrown. 
Her affluent hair a golden knot restrains : 175 

A golden clasp her purple robe sustains : 
Her quiver flames with gold. lulus leads 
The youth of Troy, and to the field succeeds. 
Then great iEneas joins the train, confest 
In manly beauty bright above the rest: ISO 

Like Phoebus, when the God in heavenly pride 
Leaves wintry Lycia and cold Xanthus' side, 
To cheer his Delos with revived delights, 
The song, and dance, and pomp of holy rites. 
Around his altar, with symphonious voice, 185 

Thessalia's, Crete's, and Scythia's sons rejoice. 
He walks on Cynthus, and his shafts resound: 
With gold and bays his radiant locks are bound. 
jEneas moved in equal pride of grace: 189 

Such was his god-like port, and such his beaming face. 
When to the mountain's lofty tract they came, 
Rugged and wild, the nurse of savage game; 
m2 



164 

Here, roused and trembling, from his rocky lair, 
The wild goat rushes down the steep, and there 
From the high hills, precipitate with fear, 196 

Bound o'er the dusty plains the herded deer. 
The boy Ascanius on a fiery steed 
Now these, now those surpasses in his speed ; 
And hopes, descending as a nobler prey, 
The lion or the boar may cross his way. 200 

Meanwhile with vollied storm the heavens are rent; 
And rain and hail rush down with fierce descent. 
The mountains pour their torrents on the vales, 
And a brown deluge o'er the scene prevails. 
The mingled crowd disperse ; Ascanius flies : 205 

Each seeks a refuge from the wrathful skies. 
To the same cavern's dark protection came 
The Trojan leader and the Tyrian dame. 
Earth first, and conscious Juno gave the sign: 
Through the dun gloom disastrous flashes shine: 210 
Groans the struck air, as prescient of the event; 
And the hills howl with strains of deep lament. 



165 

From that black day, their source, dire ills proceed; 
And woes and death hang lowering on it's deed. 
Now pride and matron honour feeble prove 215 

To check the Queen, who glories in her love; 
Calls it a spousal, and with wedlock's name 
Hallows the pleasure and adorns the shame. 

But Fame, alarm'd, o'er Lybia's cities flies — 
Fame, the most fleet of mischief's progenies : 220 

Who gathers speed from every passing hour ; 
Grows in her course, and travels into power. 
Timid and small at first, at length she shrowds, 
While treading on the ground, her forehead in the clouds. 
Offended at the Gods, great parent Earth, 225 

'Tis said, in vengeance gave the monster birth, 
Of all her giant family the last ; 
A swift wing'd portent, foul, deform'd, and vast. 
Beneath each numerous plume that lifts her flight, 
An active eye extends her scope of sight: 230 

As many ears, and mouths, and tongues she moves, 
To catch and spread the rumours as she roves, 
m3 



166 

With sounding wing earth's shadow she pursues ; 
Nor steeps her lids in sleep's ambrosial dews. 
By day she keeps on watch, and takes her stand 235 
On some high roof, or tower of wide command : 
And, thence, alike for truth or falsehood loud, 
She shakes the city and distracts the crowd. 
Now pleased with ill, of things not done or done, 
Her eager whispers through the nations run: 240 

Spread that, from Troy derived, iEneas shares 
The beauteous Dido's bed and regal cares: 
That the fond lovers, plunged in loose delights, 
Prolong with luxury the winter-nights, 
Careless of honour or the public weal: 245 

These tales she scatters, and the people feel. 
Straight to I'arbas she directs her course ; 
Fires his proud mind, and gives his fury force. 
A ravish'd nymph, of Garamantian race, 
Produced this son from Ammon's strong embrace. 250 
He, through his spacious regions, to his sire 
A hundred altars heap'd with deathless fire; 



167 

Eternal vigils to the Gods ordain' d ; 
Their hallow'd fanes with ceaseless victims stain'd: 
Still fed with holy blood the fatten'd ground; 255 

And the rich shrines with flowery chaplets crown'd. 
Now impotent of mind, to madness driven, 
Prostrate before the majesty of heaven, 
He pour'd, with hands supine and suppliant air, 
The fiery torrent of his soul in prayer: 260 

" Almighty Jove! for whom with zeal divine 
We spread the sacred feast, and spill the wine ; 
Behold'st thou this? or do we vainly fear, 
When thunders roll, thine angry godhead near? 
Is it by senseless fires o'eraw'd we stand ? 265 

And feels the tempest no superior hand ? 
An exiled woman, by the billows tost, 
Built a small city on our purchased coast: 
We gave the law, — the soil she till'd for bread : 
She scorns us now, and spurns our profTer'd bed; 270 
Takes, as her lord, ^Eneas to her arms ; 
And the gay spoiler triumphs in her charms. 
m 4 



168 

This essenced Paris, with his demi-men, 

His Phrygian mitre tied to prop his chin, 

Enjoys our rights: while we with idle flame 275 

Incense thy fane, and worship but a name." 

Him, as he thus his fervent prayer preferr'd. 
And grasp'd the holy shrine, the Almighty heard. 
Then, as he turn'd to Carthage, and survey'd 
The regal pair by love's deceits betray'd, 280 

With each high thought extinguished in the breast, 
He gave to Mercury his dread behest : 
" Go! fly, my son! invoke the winds to bear 
Thy fleetest pinion through the deeps of air : 
Add all thy soul, and shoot upon the wing 285 

To speed our mandate to the Dardan king: 
Who now, regardless of his mighty fates, 
In Tyrian Carthage indolently waits. 
Not this the promise of his mother's word, 289 

When twice she snatch'd him from the Grecian sword. 
Her promise was a chief, whose aweful sway 
Italia, big with empire, should obey: 



1(59 

A hero, worthy of his lofty birth, 

Whose laws should triumph o'er the subject earth. 

If for himself he scorns the proffer'd prize, 295 

And looks at glory with unkindled eyes ; 

Has he a father's heart? and can he doom 

His loved Ascanius to the loss of Rome? 

What means he? with what hope can he remain 

On hostile shores, and spurn his Latian reign? 300 

No! let him sail, to our high will resign'd! 

Tis thus resolved: and thou declare our mind." 

So spoke the Sire, and zealous to obey, 
The filial Power assumes his full array : 
Binds to his heels the wings, that bear his course 305 
O'er land or ocean with the whirlwind's force: 
Then takes the wand, with whose supreme controll 
He drives from day, or back recalls the soul; 
Lord of the brain, bids slumber come or fly, 
And vindicates from death the rigid eye. 310 

Thus arm'd, and thus attired, he proudly sails 
On the dark clouds and the careering gales; 



170 

Till in his flight he sees great Atlas rise ; 
Who glories in the might that bears the skies : 
Gigantic Atlas! on whose piny brow 315 

Beat ceaseless storms, and gathering winters grow. 
Snows veil his shoulders; from his chin descends 
The rush of floods ; in ice his beard depends. 
Here pausing first, Cyllenius weighs his wings: 
Hence to the seas precipitous he flings; 320 

And, like the bird that hovers round the shores, 
Just skims the billows and the rocks explores, 1 
Bound from the land which gave his mother birth, 
He steers his wins: between the skies and earth. 



* The three lines which follow in the original, and which I have 
only in part translated, (in I. 323. 324,)are justly, as I think, sus- 
pected of illegitimacy. The learned Heyne condemns them, and 
I am not disposed to plead for them. Mercury, or Hermes (here 
called Cyllenius, from Cyllene, a mountain of Arcadia, on which 
he was nursed,) was the son of Jupiter by Maia, one of the seven 
daughters of Atlas, a king of Mauritania, who in consequence of 
his astronomical science, was fabled to support the skies. After 



171 

Soon as his fealher'd feet attain the ground, 325 
Where scatter'd cots the new-built city bound, 
He sees ./Eneas earnestly intent 
To found the street, and rear the battlement. 
Starr'd with bright jasper, by the chieftain's side 
A falchion hung in military pride. 330 

In gorgeous drapery o'er his shoulders flow'd 
A mantle, that with Tyrian scarlet glow'd; 
Where gold, inwrought, with gay embroidery strove — 
The work of Dido, and the gift of love. 
To whom the god, " O! fond, uxorious man! 335 

And can'st thou thus for haughty Carthage plan ? 

an interval probably of two thousand years, the country of Atlas 
produced another king, who devoted himself with success to the 
same studies with this Mauritanian monarch. In the eleventh cen- 
tury of the Christian sera, Ben Mohammed (commonly known by 
the name of the Nubian Geographer) constructed a silver sphere, 
with all the divisions and astronomical circles accurately de- 
scribed on it, and presented it to Roger ii. of Sicily, in whose do- 
minions he had obtained an asylum when he was driven from his 
own. 



172 

Construct her powers of war, adorn her town? 

Friend to her state, and traitor to thy own? 

The Sire of Gods himself, whose aweful hand 

Wields the vast fabric of the skies and land ; 340 

Has sent me from the Olympian throne to bear 

His sovereign mandate through the abyss of air: 

What are thy projects? wherefore this delay 

On Lybia's land? what hopes avouch thy stay? 

If for thyself, not daring to be great, 345 

Thou spurn the glorious promises of fate, 

Respect Ascanius ; nor defraud his claim 

To Latium's empire, and the Roman name." 

He spoke, and fading into air, his flight 
Escaped the gross pursuit of mortal sight. 350 

But fix'd in holy awe iEneas stood; 
Fear raised his bristling hair, and thrill'd his blood, 
And bound his struggling tongue : confirm'd to break 
The spell of love, and love's sweet land forsake, 
He burns for flight, incited from above, 355 

And order'd by the delegate of Jove. 



173 

But, ah! the queen! — ah! how shall he declare 

His dreadful purpose to the frantic fair? 

What words of melting sweetness shall he find 

To soften her assent, and soothe her mind? 360 

This way, and that his labouring thought revolves; 

Forms plans, and changes; — falters and resolves. — 

At length, his counsels to his chiefs he gave, 

Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Cloanthus brave. 364 

Bade them instruct their comrades to repair ^ 

In silence to the shore, and waiting there, > 

Refit the navy, and their arms prepare: 

Charged them for these new orders to assign 

Some specious cause, to veil their true design: 369 

While to the bounteous queen, who dreams secure 

That loves like theirs unbroken shall endure, 

Himself the alarming secret would impart, 

In some nice moment of the yielding heart, 

When open all it's soft accesses lay. — 

They hear with joy, and hasten to obey, 375 



174 

But Dido soon (for what disguise can cheat 
A lover's eyes?) perceived the plann'd deceit: 
Trembling when safe, of shadowy ills afraid, 
She saw their projects ere by Fame betray'd. 
But soon that cruel pest assured her ear, 380 

The fleet was arming, it's departure near. 
Struck and aghast, with passions all on flame, 
Wild through the city ran the infuriate dame : 
Wild as the Bacchant in the enthusiast hour, 
When pealing cries announce the rushing power, 385 
The fierce triennial inroad of the God ; a 
And every bosom feels his maddening rod. 
Deep howls resound, and with insane delight 
Cithaeron bellows, and alarms the night. 



a The tumultuous festival of Bacchus was celebrated every 
third year ; and the mountain Cithsron, at the foot of which 
stood Thebes, was the earliest and the principal scene of these 
frantic and licentious rites. 



175 

At last, by love and rage at once possest, 390 

She sought the Dardan prince, and thus address'd : 

" And could'st thou hope, perfidious! to conceal 

Thy guilt, and from my realms in silence steal ? 

Will not my plighted hand, my doting love, 

Or Dido dying by thy treason move? 395 

And can'st thou too, most cruel! think to sail, 

When wintry signs exasperate the gale? 

What ? if not wandering now to lands unknown, 

Thy Troy still glorying in her old renown; 399 

Would'st thou for Troy the wrath of Neptune brave? 

To Troy steer madly through the stormy wave? 

Me would'st thou fly ? — By all my wrecks of power, 

The hand thou gavest me, and the tears I shower ; 

By our young nuptials, our enraptured nights; 

By Hymen left to mourn his fruitless rites ; 405 

By all my love has given — if aught it gave 

Were ever sweet — ah ! pity, yield, and save, 

If prayer may yet subdue thy stern intent, 

In mercy to my falling realm relent. 



176 

For thee I have enraged each Lybian state ; 410 

Inflamed their monarchs and my brothers hate : 

For thee, alas! abjured my former fame, 

That raised to heaven the glories of my name. 

To whom, wilt thou resign me, ere I rest 

In the cold tomb, my consort? — no — my guest! 415 

This title still remains, the fonder gone. 

But wherefore should I wait, till on my town 

Pygmalion rushes with the flames of war; 

Or fierce I'arbas chains me to his car? 

0! that at least, before thy cruel flight, 420 

Some offspring might confess our past delight! 

Some young iEneas, playful in my hall, 

With kindred lineaments thy charms recall! 

In him thou would'st survive; and I should be 

Not lost entire, or wholly reft of thee!" 425 

Thus she: by Jove constraint, his eyes he held 
Unmoved, and his love-faltering heart compell'd : 
Then briefly spoke at last: " O Queen! what you 
Can claim of richest merit, is your due. 



177 

And while the memory of myself remains, 430 

While life's warm spirit quickens in my veins, 

Still shall your worth be treasured in my breast; 

And still Eiissa's virtues be confest. 

To all beside, I painfully reply: 

Mistake not, that I hoped by stealth to fly. 435 

I ne'er pretended to a husband's claim : 

Not such our union, or it's rights the same. 

If, to myself resign'd, I yet were free, 

My act unfetter'd by the Fates' decree; 

First would I cherish my dear native land, 440 

And prostrate Troy should rise beneath thy hand; 

The vanquish'd triumph in their alter'd state, 

And Priam's palace once again be great. 

But, from his Lycian and Grynaean* shrine, 

Apollo's voice ordains Italia mine : 445 

a At Patara in Lycia, and at Grynium, in the adjacent region 

of Jilolis in Asia Minor, were oracles of Apollo of very old and 

extensive repute ; and hence the epithets of Lycian and Gry- 

naean in this passage. Neither of these oracles had immediately 

N 



178 

To great Italia bids me waft my care: 

My country that — my patriot love is there. 

If on this Lybian coast, though sprung from Tyre, 

You see well-pleased your Punic towers aspire ; 

Why may not we enjoy the Ausonian land, 450 

And build dominion on a foreign strand ? 

Oft as o'er earth the humid veil of night 

Is drawn, and heaven with living fires is bright; 

Anchises' angry shade, forewarning harm, 

Invades my dream, and chills me with alarm. 455 

Me, too, my loved and wrong'd Ascanius blames: 

Withheld by me, Hesperia's crown he claims— 

His by the Fates; and now, to make me just, 

Jove sends his herald to enforce my trust — 

Hermes himself: I both the Gods attest ! 460 

My eyes the power, array'd in light, confest 

been consulted by .SCneas: but they were the most celebrated 
oracles of that God who had directed the course of the Trojans 
to Italy, and were named as the best known and of the highest 
dignity. The authority was the same, from whatever oracle of 
the same God the advice or the injunction issued. 



179 

Even here he stood ; his accents, as he spoke, 
On my struck ear with deep impression broke. 
Cease then ! and wound your heart and mine no more : 
Constrain d by Heaven, I seek Italia's shore." 465 

She, ere he fmish'd, with averted view, 
Now here, now there, her fiery glances threw : 
Then fix'd, she eyed him o'er with stern survey: 
At length the gather'd passion burst it's way. 
" Traitor! thou falsely speak'st thy race divine: 470 
Sprung from no Goddess, of no hero's line! 
Thee Caucasus begot of stony brood! 
Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee with blood! 
For why should I dissemble? why prolong 
The courtesy of speech for greater wrong? 475 

Touch'd with my love, did once his eyes incline? 
Heaved he one sigh, or dropp'd one tear with mine? 
Of which dire ill shall I complain the first? 
Which wrong upbraid, as sharpest and the worst? 
My wrongs — now, now injustice reigns above, 480 

Great Juno heeds not, or Saturnian Jove. 

N 2 



180 

Nowhere is faith! — Wreck'd, indigent, undone, 

The man I raised— placed, madly, on my throne i 

Drew to my ports his fleet dispersed and lost; 

Rescued from death his famine-smitten host. 485 

But now— ah me! the furies fire my brain: — 

Now speaks Apollo— now the Lycian fane ! 

Now Jove's own herald, through the aerial way, 

Bears the great Father's orders — to betray! 

Such cares, forsooth, the realms above infest; 490 

And break the tenor of celestial rest! 

Go ! I detain thee not, — thy pleas are good ! 

Go! and through storms be Italy pursued! 

Go! o'er the billows seek thy promised realm! 

But oh ! may storms disperse, and billows whelm ! 495 

May'st thou on rocks, if any righteous Power 

Vouchsafe to hear me, meet thy fatal hour! 

Then may'st thou often call, in penal pain, 

On Dido's name!— nor shalt thou call in vain: 

Wrapp'd in black fires, my spirit shall be there, 500 

To drink thy groans and mock at thy despair. 



181 

Yes! wretch! when death has burst my mortal tie, 

In all thy walks my spectre shall be nigh. 

Much shalt thou feel ; and in the world of night 

Thy rumour'd woes shall give my shad p. delight." 505 

Abruptly here she ceased, o'erpower'd and weak ; 

And, as he falter'd much, much wish'd to speak, 

Preventing his reply, she turn'd away; 

Broke from his sight, and hid herself from day. 

Her maidens' arms receive the fainting fair; 510 

And softly to the regal chamber bear. 

But anxious as he was to soothe her woes, 
And pour the balm which might induce repose: 
Though only rack'd by love, and strongly pain'd, 
His mind unchanged the pious Prince maintain'd: 515 
And resolute Heaven's purpose to complete, 
Heaved the thick frequent sigh, and sought his fleet. 
Then, bending to their toils, the Trojan train 
Draw from the docks their navy to the main. 
The well-tarr'd vessel floats; while some explore 520 
The woodsy and shape the branch into an oar. 
n 3 



182 

One soul inspires them: eager to be gone, 
They ply their tasks, and rush from all the town. 
Now might you see them crowd the public way; 
Like ants, when mindful of the wintry day, 525 

To store their granaries with plunder'd grain, 
They march in black battalion o'er the plain : 
And, where an opening foot-track yields a pass, 
Convey their pillage through the weaker grass. 529 
Some, should' ring, push the ponderous spoils along; 
Some punish idlers; some arrange the throng. 
Order and spirit all the host inform ; 
And the full path with fervid life is warm. 

When from a lofty tower thine eyes survey'd 
The port in tumult, and the shore array'd, 535 

O Dido! wounded by the afflictive scene, 
How rending were thy groans! thy pangs how keen! 
Despotic Love! to what canst thou compel 
The vassal heart? Again to tears she fell: 
Resolved once more the force of prayer to prove, 540 
And stoop again her lofty soul to love: 



1SS 

Lest any means, before she died, unsought, 
The mortal stroke might yet be struck for nought. 
" Anna!" she cried, " ah! see how yonder bands 
Run, gather, quicken on the swarming sands. 545 

The canvas floats, soliciting the wind : 
The prows with wreaths the joyous seamen bind. 
Well might my prudence have foreseen this blow ; 
And haply taught me to support the woe! 
But, Anna! pity me, and generous still, 550 

Your wretched sister's last desire fulfil. 
To you this false-one has been ever kind; -\ 

To you has oft unlock'd his secret mind: > 

You best the passes to his heart can find. J 

Go, then, my sister! as my suppliant go! 555 

Kneel, and for me implore this haughty foe. 
I did not swear at Aulis to destroy, 
With the leagued Greeks, his heaven-defended Troy. 
To theirs, my navy no assistance gave: 
Nor have I rifled his Anchises' grave. 560 

N4 



184 

Why are his ears then barr'd against my prayer ? 

Why flies he thus, to throw me to despair? 

This let him yet indulge, by pity moved, 

To one who fondly loves, — whom once he loved : 

Let him but wait till he can safely fly; 565 

Till winds blow gently from a softer sky. 

The nuptials he betrays, I plead no more : 

Free let him seek his realm on Latium's shore. 

Time now is all I ask, a pause of fate, 

To teach my mind submission to my state. 570 

This is my last request; and thou attend 

My latest wish, and be to death my friend: 

Then shall thy faithful love within my heart 

Grow while I live, and but with life depart.'* 

Such was her suit; and such, with tender pain, 575 
Her weeping sister bears, — and bears again. 
But neither prayers nor tears his purpose move; 
Their touching power withstood by fate and Jove. 
Closed are his ears by Heaven's obstructing hands, 
And fix'd in hardness not his own he stands. 580 



185 

As when, conspiring with confederate stroke, 

The mountain-winds assault, the monarch oak: 

In whose strong trunk's majestic size appears 

The augmenting grandeur of a thousand years. 584 

Now here, now there, the assiduous blasts resound ; 

The shatter'd branches strew with leaves the ground. 

The tree, itself entire, sustains the shock ; 

Stands proudly eminent, and grasps the rock: 

As high as toward the heavens it's summits rise, 

So low descends it's root to meet the nether skies. 590 

Thus with assailing prayers the chief is prest, 

And here and there the conflict storms his breast. 

His mind erect, though conscious of her pain, 

Holds her firm will, and tears are pour'd in vain. 

Now by her fates appall'd, and quite subdued, 595 
Anxious for death unhappy Dido stood. 
The beams of heaven fatigue her sicken'd sight, 
And portents crowd to scare her from the light. 
As she frequents with gifts the hallow'd shrine, 
And pours libations of nectareous wine ; 600 



186 

Dire to relate ! upon the sacred floor 

The wine falls blackening, and corrupts to gore. 

This prodigy to none her lips impart ; 

Withheld even from the sister of her heart. 

Within the space her ample courts include, 605 

Raised to her former love, a temple stood: 

Whose walls she dress'd, in fond devotion's hours, 

With snowy fleeces and with festal flowers. 

Here now, when earth reposed in night's embrace, 609 

Small thrilling accents whisper'd through the place. 

The dead are there; and, prescient of her doom, 

Her husband's voice invites her to his tomb : 

And lonely on the roof night's bird prolongs 

The notes of woe, and shrieks funereal songs. 

Predictions too, from ancient prophets brought, 615 

Strike with dread warning on her startled thought. 

In dreams, now fierce jEneas, wrapt in gloom, 

Impels her phrensy and provokes her doom: 

Now, solitary, wandering, weary, slow, 

She seems o'er long, and trackless wastes to go; 620 



187 

To seek, abandon'd and a queen no more, 

Her Tyrian comrades on a desert shore. 

Mad as wild Pentheus, when his rolling eyes 

Saw from the deep infernal legions rise; 

And, by distraction's lawless power compell'd, 625 

A twofold sun and double Thebes beheld: 

Or mind-struck as Orestes on the stage, 

When pale with fright he shuns his mother's rage ; 

While, pressing on his steps, she shakes her hands, 

Arm'd with black serpents and Tartarean brands. 630 

Aghast he flies; but at the guarded gate 

The avenging terrors of the Furies wait. 

When thus with phrensy fired, o'erpower'd with woe, 
Her mind was bent on death's relieving blow ; 
Long with herself she weighs the time and means: 635 
Then with pretended hope her brow serenes; 
Hides with a smile the pangs that inly tear, 
And thus deceives her sorrowing sister's care : 
" Anna! the way is found (rejoice with me!) 
To bind my lover, or to set me free. 640 



188 

Near Ocean's limit, where the sun descends, 

Beyond where utmost ^Ethiopia tends; 

Where Atlas in majestic state aspires, 

And props the pole, inlaid with starry fires; 

There spreads a region, whence, to visit mine, 645 

Now comes the priestess of the Hesperian shrine: 

Who kept the trees, that bend with growing gold; 

Who fed the dragon, and his rage controll'd, 

Sprinkling the ground with medicated power, 

Honey's soft dews, and poppy's drowsy flower. 650 

Her have I found : her charms, as she declares, 

At will can free or crush the mind with cares; 

Can chain the torrent in it's headlong force, 

Or hurl the planets backward in their course. 

Her voice can rouse the Manes, waken death : 655 

She calls; — and you may see, above, beneath, 

Nature in strong alarm, while oaks forsake 

Their hills, and earth's deep bellowing caverns shake. 

Ah! I attest the Gods and thee, dear maid! 

Driven by my fates, I fly to magic's aid. 660 



1S9 

Do thou construct a pile with secret care 

Within my courts, and full exposed to air. 

With all those arms, he left, adorn it's head, ) 

And all the traitor's gifts; and there he spread, r 

My cause of ruin, the connubial bed. J 665 

For, justly to fulfil the mystic plan, 

Must flame each relic of this impious man." 

She said ; and sudden paleness quench' d her cheeks : 

But Anna knows not what the paleness speaks ; 

Unweigh'd the madness of her sister's mind, 670 

Suspects not death in these new rites design'd ; 

And hastens to obey, without the dread 

Of ills more dire than when Sychaeus bled. 

And now, with cloven ash and pine built high, 
In the court's inner space beneath the sky, 675 

The pyre of fate, as gloomily it stands, 
The Queen encircling wreathes with flowery bands: 
And, thoughtful of the event her soul decreed, } 
Crowns it with leaves devoted to the dead, Y 

And places all the relics on it's head. ^680 



190 

There plants the sword, the conscious bed displays; 

And on the bed the hero's image lays. 

Altars are raised around: the Priestess there, 

With raving act and wildly streaming hair, 684 

Thundering, thrice summons from their dread abodes 

Orcus and Chaos, and the hundred gods; 

And threefold Hecate, — Diana trine, 

In hell, on earth, in heaven of power divine. 

Then strews feign'd drops from the Avernian well; 

And herbs, whose veins with dusky poisons swell, 690 

Fed with black dews from night's disastrous noon, 

With brazen sickles reap'd beneath the moon: 

And next, to give the maddening power to move, 

Robs the foal's forehead of it's mother's love.* 



a The classic writers mention two species of the hippomanes, 
both of which were regarded as powerful ingredients in philtres 
and poisonous potions. One of these was a tongue-like excres- 
cence, sometimes seen on the forehead of the new-born foal, 
which, according to a popular notion, not yet extinct, the mare 
immediately seizes and eats, or, if prevented in her design, re- 



191 

The Queen before the solemn altars bends : (595 

The salted cakes her pious handg extends. 

fuses to suckle her offspring. Hence in this passage (the effect 
in the poetic dialect being substituted for the cause,) it is called 
the mother's love. The other hippomanes was a fluid distilling 
from mares when under the strong impulse of the procreative 
instinct ; and of this Virgil in another place seems to speak as 
being the true hippomanes : 

Hinc demam hippomanes, vero quod nomine dicunt 
Pastores, lentum distillat ab inguine virus : 
Hippomanes, quod sape malaz legere noverca, 
Miscueruntque herbas et non innoxia verba. 

Geor. iii. 280. 

Tibullus also notices this species of the hippomanes : L. 2d, E. vr, 

Et quod, ubi indomitis gregibus Venus afflat amores, 
Hippomanes cupidce stillat ab inguine equa,. 

That extraordinary man, Bayle, has published a dissertation 
(a learned one of course) on the subject of the hippomanes ; 
and they, who are desirous, on such a topic, of information blended 
with entertainment, may find it in his work ; which is attached 
to all the later editions of his wonderful dictionary. 



J 92 

One foot was bare, and zoneless was her vest: 

Her dying lips the Gods and stars attest : 

The stars and Gods, that conscious of her state. 

Look'd idly on, nor would avert her fate: 700 

And if there be upon the thrones above 

Some Powers, who visit for the wrongs of love; 

To these, whose pity woes like hers can feel, 

Her prayers for justice and revenge appeal. 

'Twas night: and Slumber's soft and balmy hand 
Threw healing influence o'er the weary land. 706 

Hush'd are the woods ; their rage the waves resign ; 
In their mid course the stars serenely shine. 
Silence prevails: the tenants of the lake, 
The field, the grove, the thorn-defended brake, 710 
Beasts and gay-cinctured birds, in sleep's delight 
Forget their labours and enjoy the night. 
Not so th' unhappy Queen : with transient rest 
Night cannot seal her eyes, or calm her breast. 
Contending cares distract her : love returns 715 

To war with anger, and the conflict burns. 



193 

" What shall I do? ah! what is now the part 

My fortunes prompt?" she questions thus her heart: 

" Shall I my former suitors try to move? 

Beg, where I would not give, the boon of love? 720 

Court Lybian nuptials with submitting pride ; 

And, scorning oft, now sue— and be denied ? 

Or shall I go, and seek the Trojan bands? 

A suppliant, crouching for their last commands? 

Yes !— truly those I succour'd will be kind; 725 

Already have they shown their grateful mind ! 

But grant, my soul could stoop thus meanly low: 

Would their proud ships receive me as I bow ? 

And hast thou yet to learn, ah ! wretch undone ! 

How base is each Laomedontian 3 son ? 730 

* Alluding to the perfidy and perjury of Laomedon, (the father 
of Priam and king of Troy,) who defrauded Neptune and Apollo, 
in the first instance, and Hercules in the second, of the rewards 
which he had bound himself by oath to give, to the former for 
building the walls of his city, and to the latter for the rescue of 
his daughter Hesione. From the substantive, Laomedon, Virgil has 



194 

Then,— shall I singly go, prepared to meet 

The taunts and pity of the shouting fleet? 

Or shall I bring my Tyre to swell their train : 

A second host of exiles on the main? 

And whom from Sidon's shores I hardly drew, 735 

Throw to the perils of the sea anew ? 

No! die, fond wretch! to die is thy desert: 

The sword must still the throbbings of thy heart. 

From thee, my sister! thee derived my woe : 

Moved by my tears, thou gavest me to the foe. 740 

Ah ! wherefore was I not allow'd to prove 

The life of nature, free from nuptial love, 

And far from cares like these ? I suffer now 

For wrong'd Sychaeus, and my broken vow." 

While thus her bursting sorrows found their way, 
iEneas in his ship securely lay; 746 

formed two adjectives, Laomedonteus in the present passage, and 
Laomedontius I. viii. 18. ; and by the example of my original, I 
consider myself as justified in using the word, Laomedontian. 



195 

Prepared to sail, and certain now of flight: 
When, lo! the God, once more reveal'd in light, 
Flash'd sudden on his dream, and to his ear 
Address'd this warning, and alarm'd his fear. 750 

(In all like Mercury the vision came ; 
His voice, his hair, his roseate youth the same.) 
" And sleep'st thou, Goddess-born, thus urged by fate 
Blind to the dangers that around thee wait? 
Mad as thou art ! nor hear'st the western gales, 755 
That breathe auspicious, and provoke thy sails ? 
Toss'd by wild passions, and on death intent, 
Her breast now labours with some dire event. 
And wilt thou not, when fraud or force is nigh, 
Fly hence, while yet it is indulged to fly? 760 

Soon shalt thou see the waves convulsed with oars, 
And bright with hostile fires the seas and shores, 
If morn surprise thee here. Haste! hence! away! 
Burst from the land, for death is in delay. 
Woman is various, mutable, and light. 765 

Beware!" He spoke, and mingled with the night, 
o 2 



196 

JSneas, startled by the God's alarm, 
Springs from his sleep, and calls his host to arm. 
" Wake! rouse, my men! be vigilant! extend 
The strenuous oar, and all your canvas bendf 770 

The God again, descending from the sky, 
Chides our delay, and stimulates to fly. 
Blest Power! again we hear thee, and obey; 
And gladly follow as thou lead'st the way. 
Whoe'er thou art, of all the thrones divine, 775 

Be present still! and still, as now, benign! 
With stars propitious guide us o'er the seas; 
Breathe favoring winds, and all the fierce appease !" 
Instant he drew his sword, and with a stroke 
The steel through the retaining cable broke. 780 

The leader's soul shot ardent through the host. 
They rush, they seize their oars, and leave the coast. 
The vessels hide the main : the seamen sweep. 
With strength united, o'er the foamy deep. 

Now rising from Tithonus' saffron bed, 785 

Her earliest rays o'er earth Aurora spread. 



197 

When from her watch-tower, with the dawning light, 
The Queen beheld the sails arranged in flight; 
Remark'd the mournful silence of the shores, 
And the lone port deserted by the rowers ; 790 

She tore her golden hair, — her beauteous breast 
She madly struck, and thus her soul express'd: 
" Great God ! and shall he ?— shall this stranger brave 
My baffled power, and safely ride the wave ? 
Rush not my troops ? pours not my town it's swarms, 
To launch my navy, and pursue with arms? 796 

Haste ! scatter fires ! spread all your sails, and row 
To bear my vengeance headlong on the foe ! 
"What do I say ? Where am I ? In my brain 
Distraction wanders, and the Furies reign. 800 

This had been well, when yet thou could'st command ; 
Ere, fool ! thou gavest the sceptre from thy hand. 
Behold his faith, who bore his aged sire ! 
His piety, who saved his Gods through fire! 
Could I not tear, and scatter on the main 805 

His mangled limbs ? not slaughter all his train ? — 
o.3 



198 

Ascanius too? and place, with horrid joy, 

Even on the father's board the sever'd boy? 

But doubtful still had been the fate of war :— 

Secure of death, whom— what had I to fear? 810 

No ! — I had fill'd his decks with bursting flame : 

Destroy'd the sire, the son, the race— the name : 

Then thrown myself upon the pile of death, 

And, pleased with vengeance, smiled away my, breath. 

Thou, Sun! whose eye of fire sees all below ; 815 

Thou, nuptial Juno ! conscious of my woe ; 

Thou, Hecate ! severe nocturnal Power, 

Invoked with howlings in the midnight hour ; 

Ye, Furies of revenge ! ye Gods ! who wait 

On Dido's death, the ministers of fate ! 820 

Attend ! your righteous deities incline 

To wrongs so deep, and prayers so just as mine! 

If this dire man must struggle to the land, 

Must gain the port, as Jove and Fate command ; 

So let it be :— but let him joy no more ! 825 

Preserved from ocean, be he wreck'd on shore! 



199 

Oppress' d by nations of unwielding war, 
Torn from lulus, from his confines far, 
An exile, let him sue for aid in vain, 
And see his comrades strew the ensanguined plain, 830 
And when at last beneath injurious peace 
He stoops, O let not then his labours cease ! 
Then cheated of the hopes he bought so dear, 
The tranquil sceptre and life's hoary year, 
Oh ! let him fall in gore before his day, 835 

Unburied on the sands, the vulture's prey I 
This is my prayer: and O ye Gods! make good 
These my last words, that issue with my blood! 
And you, my Tynans! to my Manes just, 
Cherish my hatred as a sacred trust ! 840 

Pursue to death the whole detested line! 
No love, no leagues, the hostile people join! 
Rise, too, some great avenger from my tomb, 
To urge with steel and fire the Dardan's doom! 
Now, and hereafter, as the strength may grow, 845 
Still let our vengeance strike, our battle glow! 
04 



200 

Theirs still our shores, waves, arms opposing face; 
And one vast hate inspirit all our race!" 

She spoke; and anxiously explored the way, 
How soonest she might break from hated day. 850 
Then thus to Barce, whose attentive cares 
Had fondly watch'd Sychaeus' infant years, 
His honour' d nurse; (her own was now no more, 
In peace reposing on her native shore:) 
Haste, Barce! call my Anna; bid her bring, 855 

To bathe my limbs, pure waters from the spring : 
And here, the victims of atonement lead : 
Thy hand the sacred fillets on my head 
Shall bind : to Stygian Jove I now prepare 
To absolve the destined rites, and close my care. 860 
And now the Dardan pyre must flame." She said : 
With tottering haste the time-worn dame obey'd. 

But wild, aghast at what her soul decreed, 
Shudd'ring, yet rushing to the dreadful deed; 
"With sanguine eyes that roll, and cheeks that glow 
With spots of red, emerging from the snow 866 



201 

Shed by approaching death, with frantic haste 

The court's interior threshold Dido past. 

Then mounting on the pyre, by fury driven, 

She drew — ah! not for this sad purpose given, 870 

The Dardan sword : but faltering as she view'd 

On the known bed the Trojan vestments strew'd, 

Her soul relented; into tears she broke, 

And, thrown upon the couch, her last she spoke: 

" Sweet, precious trophies of my happy state, 875 
While Jove was kind, and smiled indulgent fate ! 
Receive my streaming life, and aid the blow 
That greatly rids me of incumbent woe. 
Yet have I lived! — and lived for noble ends! 
My shade in glory to the shades descends. 880 

Rear'd by my care a monarch-city stands : 
My eyes have seen this triumph of my hands. 
My brother, who could bid my consort bleed, 
Has left my vengeance for the direful deed. 
Happy! too happy! had disastrous gales 885 

Not wafted to my shores the Trojan sails!" 



202 

She paused, and press'd with phrensied lip the bed, 

" And shall I die? and unrevenged?" she said: 

" Yes ! let me die! thus — thus I plunge in night: -\ 

This flame shall reach the cruel Dardan's sight, 1 890 

And be the withering omen of his flight." ) 

While yet the attendants listen'd as she spoke, 

They saw her sink beneath the fatal stroke ; 

Beheld the sword with gushing life-blood warm, 

Her hands distain'd — and all is loud alarm. 895 

The fateful clamour through the court resounds : 

Then spreading, rages through the city's bounds. 

With female cries and howlings of lament 

The streets re-echo, and the air is rent. 

Not less than if, beneath the, storming foe, 990 

Carthage or venerable Tyre should bow; 

O'er towers and temples roll the tide of fire, 

And a whole people in one blaze expire. 

Half-dead and horror-struck, the sister caught 
The dreadful tidings by the tumult brought. 905 



203 

Raving she beats her breast, and tears her cheeks ; 

And wildly, as the obstructing crowd she. breaks, 

Calls on the dying: " Could'st thou this intend? 

Ah! sister! could'st thou thus betray thy friend? 

Were then these altars, fires, and pyre design'd 910 

To cheat my feelings, and mislead my mind ? 

Deserted as I am, undone and lost, 

Of what shall I complain the first and most? 

Hast thou then scorn'd me with thy latest breath ? 

Denied me even the partnership of death? 915 

Ah! equal, surely, should have been our doom; 

And the same pang have sent us to the tomb. 

And did I then this fatal pile prepare, 

Invoke my Gods with mockery of prayer, 

To find thee thus? Ah me! thy frantic blow 920 

Has laid thy sister, senate, people low — 

Has overturn' d thy state ! Haste ! let me lave 

Her gory bosom with the living wave ; 

And, if she breathe, my lips to her's apply, 

And catch the etherial spirit ere it fly." 925 



204 

Speaking, the summit of the pyre she press'd, ' 

And warm'd her dying sister in her breast : 

Groan' d, and with softest hand her robe applied 

To dry the black drops trickling down her side. 

The expiring Queen essays to lift, with pain, 930 

Her heavy lids, but soon they fall again. 

Deep in her bosom stream'd the inflicted wound ; 

And the torn vessels yield a bubbling sound. 

Thrice on her elbow raised she heaves her head ; 

And, fainting, thrice relapses on the bed : 925 

With wandering vision strives to gain the light ; 
Finds it at length, and sighs, and loaths the sight. 

But heaven's great Empress saw her laboring breath 
Detain'd in anguish by suspended death ; 
And, pitying, order'd Iris from the skies, 940 

To free the soul that struggled with it's ties. 
For since not Nature's death, or struck for crime 
She died, but fell by phrensy ere her time ; 
Proserpina had yet not shorn her head 
Of the due lock, and doom'd her to the dead. 945 



205 

Now therefore, radiant with a thousand dyes 

Drawn from the sun, the dewy Iris flies: 

Just o'er her head — " Commission'd, this I bear 

To Dis ; and loose thee from thy mortal care !" 

She says, and cuts the lock : at once expires 950 

Life's spark, and into air the unbodied soul retires. 

Aug. 13, 1810. 



206 

THE 

DEATH OF LAOCOON. 

FROM THE SECOND BOOK OF THE JENEIS: v. I99. 



IN a party of naval officers, the conversation having turned 
on the name of a new frigate, the Tenedos, to the command 
of which a gentleman of the company had just been appointed, I 
suggested, that the serpents of Laocoon would have formed an 
appropriate subject for the sculptured head of a ship, deriving 
it's name from the place whence these monsters had issued on 
their sanguinary commission. On my returning home, I trans- 
lated the following passage from the Roman poet, and sent it to 
my naval friend, for the fuller explanation of what I had playfully 
advanced in the conversation of the preceding day. 

As the passage in itself is intire, and exhibits a grand and ter- 
rifying picture, it is here presented, as it may not perhaps be 
unacceptable to the English reader. 



207 



Virgil obtained the story of Laocoon from the Cyclic poets 
of Greece, and warmed his conception of it, as there can be 
little doubt, by contemplating that masterpiece of the chisel 
which still exists to command the admiration of the world, and 
to justify the judgment of the elder Pliny, when he placed it 
among the first wonders of the imitative arts. The poet repre- 
sents the deaths of the sons and of the father as distinct and 
successive acts : but the statuary, confined by the necessity of 
his art to a single point of time, has compressed the whole tragic 
scene into one groupe of agitating and sublime horror. If there 
be a fault in this grand effort of sculpture, it is in the muscular 
appearance of the limbs of the boys, which seems to be dis- 
proportioned to the immaturity of their age, as it is intimated by 
their stature, and the juvenility of their faces. 



And now, to shake us more and more mislead, 
Dire woes, strange terrors in the scene succeed. 
By lot Laocoon chosen Neptune's priest, 
At the God's altar slew the victim beast: 
When lo ! from Tenedos (my heart-streams freeze 
Even as I speak it) o'er the tranquil seas, 
Right for our shore, arranged in equal course, 
Two mighty serpents steer with sinuous force. 



208 

Their sanguine crowns and breasts surmount the tide; 
Wallowing beneath, their monstrous volumes glide. 
The foamy surge resounds : and now they land ; 
Rise on their spires, and glare with fierce command. 
Their blood-stain'd eyes emit a fiery gleam ; 
And, playing round their jaws, their tongues with venom 

stream. 
Pale at the hideous sight, we fly : but they 
Straight to Laocoon urge their destined way. 
First his two sons they clasp in rigid folds ; 
And his weak victim either serpent holds : 
Crashes the quivering limbs, the life-blood draws; 
Feasts with grim joy, and licks his ropy jaws. 
Next, bringing aid and arms with frantic pace, 
The father's self the assailing snakes embrace; 
Twice round his loins the knots of death they tie, 
Twice round his neck : then rising proudly high 
Ride o'er his head, and shake their crests in air. 
With hands convulsed he vainly strives to tear 
The fatal cinctures : on his writhing brows 
The sacred crown with gore and poison flows. 



209 

To his dread outcries heaven's high vault replies; 
Loud as the bull's, that from the altar flies ; 
And, bellowing with his anguish, shakes the ground 5 
When his gored neck hath felt the glancing wound. 
But now the serpents, conscious of their deed, 
To Pallas' fane in rolling volumes speed. 
Crouch'd at her feet their gather'd orbs are laid, 
And safely rest beneath her buckler's shade. 

April 18, 1812, 



INEZ, 



A TRAGEDY. 



Sublata Virtjm manibus, tremebundaque ad aras 

Deducta'est, non ut, solenni more sacromm 
Perfecto, posset claro comitari Hymenceo ; 
Sed casta inceste, nubendi tempore in ipso, 
Hostia concideret mactatu moesta parentis. 

LUCRE. 

Segniiis irritant animos demissa per aurem, 
Quam quoe sunt oculis subjecta, Ifc. 

HOR. AD PISO, 



PREFACE. 



THE following drama was printed several years ago: 
but my publisher retiring at that juncture to the enjoy- 
ment of competence and privacy, the whole impression 
of my work, with the exception of a few copies, trans- 
mitted to some of the editors of Reviews, was with- 
drawn from it's projected circulation; and the present 
reprint of Inez may, consequently, with propriety be 
regarded as it's first actual appearance in the world. 
I commit it, therefore, to the public with it's original 
preface; to which succeeding circumstances have sup- 
plied me with very little to add. 

In it's printed state, I was induced to offer this drama 
to the proprietors of Drury-Lane; from whom I re- 
ceived it again with a polite note, informing me that 
p 3 



214 

in their opinion it was a piece worthy of any stage : 
but that in consequence of a resemblance, which struck 
them, of some of it's incidents and characters to some 
occurrences and agents in the highest walk of life, (at 
that time the topics of veiy general conversation,) 
they deemed it imprudent to undertake it's representa- 
tion. How far this feeling of the theatric proprietors 
was justified by the fact, I will not pretend to deter- 
mine: but certain I am that I wrote the drama of Inez 
with reference only to the page of history, and without 
a glance on any of those profligate feuds or calumnies, 
which interested the idleness of England toward the 
termination of the eighteenth century. 

Some knowledge of this poem, as it was first intended 
for publication, having been already communicated to 
the world, it is too late for me to conceal that it was 
originally inscribed to a man of rich intellectual posses- 
sions and of great moral worth ; who was then united 
to me by a friendship begun in our academical j^outh, 



215 

cemented by a similiarity of studies, sentiments, and 
feelings, and apparently firm beyond the power of the 
varying accidents of life to shake or impair. Why 
then has this inscription been suppressed, or not re- 
placed by another? Death, as it may justly be re- 
marked, ought to consecrate the memory of the friend, 
and to rivet it with adamant upon the sensitive and 
honest heart. But long before his lamented separation 
from the living, this friend, who was lodged in my 
very inmost bosom, was unfortunately wrested from 
me. Mr. Burke, and the French revolution, and a 
change in his domestic state deprived me of what I 
had enjoyed during a series of happy years, and con- 
verted the object of my proud regard into the zealot 
of aristocratical and factious alarm; into the accom- 
plice and the instrument of Mr. Pitt ; into the advocate 
of "a vigour beyond the law" into the supporter of 
atrocious and sanguinary prosecutions ; into the patron 
of barracks and of military controll; into the libeller 
(and again, in the course of a few revolving moons, the 
p4 



216 

associate) of Mr. Fox ; into the advancer, even by the 
means of jobs, of the double family given to him by 
nature and by connexion. 

Under the deformity of such an entire change, was 
it possible that I could acknowledge the friend with 
whom I had taken sweet counsels, or that he should 
not be ashamed of acknowledging me? In the ruin 
which now threw a gloom and a menace over the 
soil from which it sprang, and gave it's fantastic ivy 
to frolic in the wind as it shifted from opposite 
points, was it possible that I could discover (or dis- 
cover without anguish) that stately temple, which 
had once delighted my sight, and almost compelled 
my adoration? No! if I thought of the Windham of 
former years, it was only to weep over the Windham 
which was before me; and acutely to feel the death of 
those hopes, which an intimacy with his virtues and 
his powers had reared into vigorous life. With a sort 
of pertinacious instinct, my affection indeed followed 



217 

him to his grave: but to eulogize or even apologize 
for him, under the impression of later days, was a 
deed for which I found myself disqualified; and the 
pen fell from my hand to settle in it's more appropriate 
station between the immortalizing fingers of Mr. 
Malone. 

April 7th, 1812, 



ORIGINAL PREFACE. 



THE dramatic poem, which is now presented to 
the public, was written in the close of the year 1792, 
during the intervals of the author's professional studies, 
and for the amusement only of a few of his most inti- 
mate friends. Though favoured with the applause of 
those, to whom it was shewn, and possessed perhaps, 
as a first excursion into the walk of the drama, of 
some share of the author's partial regard, it has not 
been offered for representation, and consequently has 
not incurred the hazard of rejection by a manager in 
the first instance, or by an audience in the second. 



219 

The fable is founded on a melancholy event recorded 
in the annals of Portugal; and the characters of Al- 
phonso, of Pedro, and of Inez, are transcribed with 
sufficient accuracy from the page of the historian. For 
the other characters, and for the subordinate parts of 
the drama, as for his own creatures, the author must 
alone be responsible. 

The unhappy fate of the beautiful and innocent Inez, 
or Agnes, de Castro has been adorned by the poetry 
of Camoens: and has made it's interesting appeal to 
the sympathy of the world from the Spanish, the French, 
and the English theatre. With those however, who 
have anticipated his subject on the stage, the author 
has not maintained even what the reader might consi- 
der to be a proper correspondence. Of the tragedies 
of which his fair Castilian has already been made the 
heroine, the author has read, (and that at a period 
subsequent to the completion of his own piece,) only 
the Elvira of Mr, Mallet On comparing, therefore, 



220 

any of the compositions in question with that which 
is now submitted to him, the reader, it is presumed, 
will readily absolve the author from the suspicion of 
having contracted obligations to the dramatick pre-oc- 
cupants of his story. 

For the author to enter on any particular discussion of 
his work would be at once presumptuous and idle : — 
presumptuous, as an attempt to controll the judgment 
and decision of that supreme tribunal before which he 
stands ; and idle, as to exhibit or defend merit is su- 
perfluous — to palliate or recommend deficiency— una- 
vailing. With a mind neither below nor above it's in- 
fluences, the author admits in the love of fame only a 
secondary principle of action; and there is an appro- 
bation, that he means of his own bosom, which he 
solicits in preference even to the plaudit of the world. 
Confident then that on this, and on every occasion, 
his pen will be found subservient to the great interests 
of man, as a moral creature, he waits, with a less 



221 

degree of trembling solicitude, for the sentence which 
may be passed on him in his present accidental cha- 
racter of Dramatist and Poet. 

May 24, 1796. 



THE PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Alphonso IV. Icing of Portugal. 
Pedro, prince of Portugal. 



i~t ' f ministers and friends of the king — enemies 

tOELLO, > . t> j J -, t 

GoNSALEZ, S t0 Pedr ° ^ ^^ 

Alma da, an exiled noble of Castile. 



The Queen, mother of Pedro. 

Inez de Castro, the reputed mistress of Pedro, but 
privately married to him. 

Leonora, a lady of large fortune, and of the blood 
royal of Portugal, once loved by Pedro. 

Theresa, her friend. 



Scene— In the first and third acts at Leonora's house in 
Coimbra*, in the second, fourth, and fifth, at the Castle 
of Mondego, distant about four miles from Coimbra. 

Time— Twelve hours. 



INEZ, 

A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. SCENE L 

Enter Leonora and Theresa. 

Leonora. 
WELL, my Theresa! whom my soul holds dear 
Beyond the vulgar friend ; — to whom she opens, 
As to her God, her last retreat of frailty ! 
Oh ! give your story to my longing ear ! 
Saw you the prince? 

Theresa. 
I saw him, Leonora ! 
The first warm blushes of the morn had roused him. 
He seem'd accoutred for the chace. His eyes 
Sparkled with lively spirit, and his steed, 



224 

Scarce by the groom restrain'd, with eager neighings 
Challenged the' promised field. 

Leonora. 

Forbear, Theresa ! 
To play with my impatience !— Was the letter 
Kindly accepted? was an answer given 
Such as my heart requires? 

Theresa. 

When I approach'd, 
The prince, who seem'd engaged in earnest converse 
With a Castilian stranger, came to meet me, 
Received your letter, and with courteous accents 
Inquired for Leonora. 

Leonora. 

Did he so? 
From Pedro's lips fell Leonora's name 
In tones of softness? Surely then he comes! 
My sweet deserter will be true again: 
And love and pleasure, exiled many a day, 
Revisit these glad walls ! 



225 

Theresa. 

Long may such inmates 
Diffuse their brightness o'er my friend's apartments! 
But much I fear that all your hopes of Pedro 
Are idly cherish'd. 

Leonora. 

Say you?— 
Theresa. 

Nay, attend. 

At first with calmness he perused your letter. 
But soon my eyes, suspended on his countenance, 
Observed the working of a storm within. 
His features kindled, and his haste let fall— 
I know not what — of insolence and — Inez. 
Leonora. 
Of insolence! it could not be, Theresa! 
Your ears deceived you. — Would my Pedro's tongue, 
A stranger still to harshness, thus resent 
A few light words that touch'd his pale-faced Miss, 

Q 



226 

The play-thing of the day? — It could not be! 
Doubtless you err — correct yourself and say- 
It was not so. 

Theresa. 
Would that I could! but surely 
No common tempest shook the Prince's soul : 
Though jealous of our eyes, he quickly smooth'd 
His outward perturbation. The Castilian 
Mark'd the raised passion, and was struck: he started 
As Pedro's rashness wildly utter'd Inez! 
Leonora. 
Well might he start! — it is a fearful name! 
A name that cheats the mistress of her lover ! 
A name that robs the father of his son ! 
A name that dims the splendour of the court! 
A name that tears her Prince from Portugal, 
And throws him to Castile ! ill fortune blot it ! 
Plagues cancel it ! — But did not Pedro's reason 
Recall his temper, and instruct his speech 
A kinder tone? 



227 

Theresa. 
He coldly took his leave ; 
And, turning, bade me counsel you to urge 
No more a vain unmaidenly pursuit: 
To check your fancies, as you studied character, 
Sought peace, and shunn'd the pain of disappointment. 
Leonora. 
He's wise and gracious! would he had reserved 
His counsels for his Inez!— She might want them! 
What ! — and can this be all ? there was a time 
When Leonora had the power to draw 
A kinder answer from her Pedro's lips. 
But let it pass; distraction's in the thought 
Of what has been! — the present hour exacts 
Another feeling, and a stronger spirit; 
Not wailing — but revenge. Leave me, Theresa! 
'Tis not in friendship to assuage my pain : 
And to behold the tossing of my soul, 
In this tempestuous moment, would affect 
Too rudely your soft nature. Oh retire ! 
Q2 



228 

Theresa. 
I go, my Leonora, though reluctant. 
May the kind Heavens with softest influence 
Drop healing on your mind ! [Ex. Ther. 

Leonora. 
O never, friend ! 
The wound, inflicted by love, shame, and scorn, 
Rankles too deep within my breast for healing! 
To be abandon'd by the man I love, 
On whom my lavish passion squander' d all— 
My heart — my person — surely were enough ! 
But to be worse than left — to be despised ! 
I whose proud lineage reaches to the throne 
Contemptuously cast off! — and for a stranger! 
X A wand'ring fair!— sprung from we know not whom— 
A vagrant of Castile ! whose snowy skin, 
And soft hypocrisy form all her claim 
To modesty and beauty ! — 'tis too much!— 
But heard I not, or was it but a dream, 
When my fond soul was absent with Theresa; 



That with the break of dawn the king arrived ? 
Should it be so, some earnest business brings him ; 
Perhaps to Pedro : — for 'tis said the monarch 
With doubtful patience brooks the Prince's dotage: 
And on the hardness of Alphonso's nature, 
Impregnable alike to love or pity, 
This wond'rous woman, this all-conquering Inez, 
May vainly spend the quiver of her charms! 
Oh ! here is comfort yet ! — this bar removed, 
Pedro and I once more may meet — my Pedro— 
Enter Alvaro. 

Ha ! who art thou that steal'st on my retirement, 
Thief-like, to catch the words incaution drops, 
Or passion scatters? Shame on my domestics 
"Who thus expose their mistress to intrusion! 
Alvaro. 

My visits, Madam ! once I fondly thought 
Obtain'd a gentler name. When last we met, 
Smiling, you own'd Alvaro's services 
Were worthy of your love. 

Q3 



230 

Leonora. 

'Twas but the yielding 
Of weakness to your persecuting suit. 
Love thee ! impossible ! my nature never 
Can yield admission to so low a passion. 
Pity I may afford thee:— though to break 
Thus rudely on my presence, and upbraid me 
With the indiscretion of a random moment. 
Might make me scorn and hate — not pity thee. 
Alvaro. 

Thanks for such goodness to your slave ! — but, Ma- 
dam, 
Patience itself must yield to endless wrongs. 
I know for whom you treat me thus ; — on whom 
Your love exhausts it's treasures, while to me 
It deals it's fitful and penurious alms. 
Leonora. 

Fond cozen'd man ! to deem my scorn of thee 
Attachment to another! Were thy kind 
All perish'd to thyself, thy proffer'd love 
Would I reject as now. 



231 

Alvaro; 

If Pedro, Madam! 
Leonora. 
If Pedro!— What of Pedro, Sir? 
Alvaro. 

Your cheek 
With crimson consciousness prevents my tongue. 
Your choice is prudent: shaded by a crown 
Even Pedro's charms may strike with more effect. 
Leonora. 
Distraction! — Must I be insulted thus, 
And bear it tamely ? — Which of all my acts 
Has given the sland'ring license you assume? 
Alvaro, 
Madam! your choice is justified alike 
By love and by ambition; — but, alas! 
The Prince, not govern'd by so true a judgment, 
Turns from the proffer'd treaty, and surrenders 
To the fair stranger of Castile's dominion. 
Q4 



232 

Leonora. 
Whence this to me of Pedro and his strumpet? 
They are not near my thoughts ! — but surely he, 
Whose vulgar fancy could decline from me 
To that white bauble, would excite my scorn 
And not my passion. 

Alvaro. 

Strange, indeed, it is, 
That eyes, which once have glanced at Leonora, 
Should dwell on Inez ! Yet must Envy's self 
Allow her beautiful. Her form and features 
Fashion'd by Nature's happiest hand, attract 
With grace and sweet intelligence. 
Leonora. 

Enough ! 
The lying praise offends my ear! 
Alvaro. 

Besides, 
Her temper's even surface may have charms 



233 

For eyes that like not Nature's fine variety 
Of calm and tempest. The weak Prince, perhaps, 
Tired of the rougher element's caprice, 
Enjoys the placid haven's safe repose. 
Leonora. 

Thou art a villain! — With a lover's mask 
Thou gain'st admission to insult and wound 
A weak defenceless woman; whose sole crime 
Was patience of thy vows. — Thou never lovedst me ! 
Alvaro. 

Never loved thee! — Yes, witness Heaven how truly t 
Witness the blushing hours, which saw me steal 
From courts, and rob ambition of her joys, 
Humbly to pour my passion at your feet: — 
To kneel and to be spurn'd ! — Your slights at length 
Have driven me from you, and restored my freedom! 
Here I assert it; and henceforth abjure 
All fond attendance on a thankless woman, 
To fill my station near Alphonso's throne, 
His minister and friend. Your late reflexion 



234 

May shew the value of the man you've lost.— 
May shew — Alvaro had perhaps the power 
To give your bosom's inmost wish effect, 
And rid you of your rival. — But farewell! 
The king expects me, and I haste to meet him! 
Leonora. 
Alvaro stay ! — If thou didst ever love me 
Thou would'st not leave me thus for a weak sally 
Of the rash temper which my parents gave me. 
Stay, my Alvaro! 

Alvaro. 
What!— to be your scorn? 
To wound you with the sight of him, whose love, 
Were he the sole survivor of his sex, 
Would still be your contempt ? No ! — to the Prince 
I yield the prize my faithful suit might claim. 
Go to Mondego!— Kneel to the Castilian — 
Sue to be of her train!— in conscious power, 
That fears no rival, she will grant the boon. 
There you may see your Pedro ; — there attend, 



235 

A satellite of that star whose single glory 
Usurps the heavens, and dims you with it's blaze, 
That fair whom I — but wherefore think of that? 
Me she has never wrong'd: her power with Pedro 
Touches in me no nerve that jars and pains. 
Her sex and charms plead strongly for regard : 
And to achieve her fall would only serve 
A woman who contemns me! 

Leonora. 

No, Alvaro! 
Though my quick blood, resentful of your wrongs, 
Burns into blushes, which the indiff'rent names 
Of Pedro and his fair could ever kindle; 
Yet I forgive the injuriousness of passion. 
But deem me not insensible to favours ; 
Thankless of benefits. — Though versed in courts, 
As yet unlearned in the heart of woman, 
Thou can'st not construe it's mysterious language. 
Not as we love or hate, we smile or frown: — 



236 

But, in obedience to the reigning humour, 

As pride or art may prompt. — Then stay and listen, 

Whilst I assert the candour of my bosom : 

Tell you your faithful love is there recorded: 

And not a service your affection yields me 

Shall fail of it's reward. 

Alvaro. 

Would I could think it! 

Leonora. 
Be certain of my truth. 

Alvaro. 

Then the proud she, 
Who chains all eyes, and fills all mouths with praise. 
Each man's attraction, and each woman's envy, 
Shall fade before you. But the service done, 
Say shall my Leonora's hand be mine? 

Leonora. 
The woman of Castile is not my rival, 
She claims my pity rather than my hate; 
And ■ 



237 

Alvaro. 
Nay, then, let her fortune triumph still; 
I'll not assail it. 

Leonora. 

Why so warm, Alvaro? 
Surely I ought to pity, not to hate her. 
Yet as she is my country's foe, — is leagued 
With alien plunderers, — and keeps the Prince 
From his high duties, I must wish her fall : 
And would do much to compass it. 
Alvaro. 

Then promise 
Yourself— the rich requital of the deed. 
Leonora. 
He who effects it is his country's friend ; 
And he must still be mine. Were he Alvaro, 
My hand, perhaps, might form his recompence. 
Let this suffice. I leave you now. — You know me. 

[£#. Leonora. 



238' 

Alvaro. 
Ay well! a vain, imperious, artful woman! 
Who think' st to shape me to thy purposes, 
To use, — then throw me by. I'll try, however, 
To mine below thy cunning, and atchieve thee. 
But then thy heart is Pedro's, and, if fame 
Lie not,— thy person also!— What of that? 
My love is not the doating sage's dream; 
The theme of youthful bards ! and thy full fortunes, 
Rich as they are with Lisbon's royal blood, 
Would swell mine proudly o'er their native bank; 
And lift them even to the height of empire. 
Now for the price at which thou must be bought, 
The fall of Inez:— 'tis already fix'd, 
And in despite to Pedro; for the love 
Of Leonora marks him for my hate. 
His boasted virtues too degrade and wound me; 
And the warm praise, shower'd on him by the world, 
Falls like a blasting mildew on my ear. 
But he shall feel my power. Coello comes! 



239 

Whose hate to Pedro is as warm as mine. 
I'll blow it into flame. 

Enter Coello. 

The King, Alvaro ! 
Requires your presence; and hath sent me hither, 
Where love and you, he knew, were to be found, 
To say he waits you. 

Alvaro. 

I attend his pleasure. 
The theme of Leonora and myself 
Just ere you came, Coello! was your mistress, 
The beauteous Inez. 

Coello. 
Could not Leonora 
Supply a worthier subject for your theme 
Than she, whose name you speak but to distress me? 
Alvaro. 
Why throw the unkind suspicion on your friend? 
Or why the name of Inez thus distress you? 
You loved it once: and the sweet owner's charms, 



240 

Brilliant as those with which the Almighty deck'd. 
The first fair wonder of creating power, 
Would vindicate a saint's or sage's dotage. 

If she refused your love 

Coello. 
Death ! that she could ! 
That any woman should possess the power, 
Curse on my fond concession ! to reject me ! 
There's pain and degredation in the thought. 
Alvaro. 
You feel too sharply what we all may suffer 
From woman's light caprice ! Imperious love 
Subjects us to the fair, who spurn or raise us, 
Not as our merits, but their fancies urge. 
'Tis strange indeed when poverty rejects 
Wealth's offer'd hand, replete with human blessings; 
And obstinately dull, prefers the coldness, 
And all the pale discomforts of her lot, 
To the warm splendour, and the pride of life. 



241 

COELLO. 

Tis wond'rous strange, my friend, and my heart beats 
That e'er my weakness should expose my fortunes 
To the rejection of a poor Castilian, 
Of peasant birth perhaps, tho' her soft feature 
And rare endowments well might spare the doubt. 
Yet was she poor, and, as thou know'st, Alvaro! 
She, with her aged mother, ill removed 
From the rude insults of assailing want, 
Lived not, but breathed in deep obscurity; 
Till I observed her — loved — and — 
Alvaro. 

— Was refused! — 
Her devious conduct mocks the attempt to trace it 
To it's hid source. Strong doubtless the aversion 
Which could o'ercome those natives of our bosoms, 
The love of riches, place, and luxury. 
Yet whence the aversion ? Age and forms like your's 
Raise not aversion in the female heart. 
Was there no rival, then, that sought her love, 

R 



242 

Whose power to gratify her pride and pleasure 
Was great as your's? 

Coello. 
Perhaps — but wherefore thus 
Force me to tread the path which leads to madness? 
Rival? — yes, yes, there was ! — for then began 
That fatal intercourse, whence Portugal 
Justly laments her alienated Prince. 
Led by my love, and reckless of my merits, 
He came, and saw — and seized my yielding prize. 
For which, if I forgive him, may the Heavens 
Pour down their hottest vengeance on my head ! 

Alvaro. 
Forbear, my friend, this ineffectual passion, 
Though wrongs like your's are strong to move the blood , 
And urge the tongue to rashness. To be scorn'd 
By a poor low-born wench, and see her torn 
From your just love by a proud lawless grasp! — 
Why, friend! it moves me strangely but to think on't! 
But why expose your honour in a treaty 



243 

With such a nymph as Inez ? lighter offers 
Perhaps had found success. 'Tis often seen, 
The pride, our blind affection taught to mount, 
O'erlooks and leaves us. Had you wooed the fair 
With the gay wantonness of youthful love, 
Haply she had been your's. 

CoELLO. 

By Heavens! Alvaro! 
She seem'd like chastity herself, indued 
With human form ! her lucid cheek alone 
Was warm and tender : in her heart appear'd 
Majestic virtue on her throne of ice! 
And when I would assay her with loose passion, 
Something within her, like Divinity, 
Awed my rash purpose, and congeal'd the sounds 
Half form'd and trembling on my tongue. 
Alvaro. 

'Tis strange 
The Prince acknowledged not the imperious power 
r2 



244 

Of this residing Deity in Inez ! 

His love knew no vain fears ; and she would rather — 

Coello. 
Be Pedro's mistress than Coello's consort ! 
This would you say? — Damnation, that 'tis true! 
Ruin o'ertake the strumpet and her lover ! 
You counsel temper, who have felt no wrongs ! 
Your blood, Alvaro, soon would lose it's coolness, 
If stung with wounds like mine. 

Alvaro. 

Your wounds are mine! 
And you shall find me, heart, and head, and hand, 
Your engine to resent them : — but these sallies 
Of the wild blood promote not wisdom's ends. 
She moves with order, secrecy, and vigour 
To her design ; and, frugal of her strength, 
Aims no uncertain blows. Then hear, Coello ! 

Coello. 
I'm all attention, speak! 



245 

Alvaro. 

Hear then, and learn 
That the revenge you seek, may not be distant ! 

Coello. 
Oh ! that it were not ! 

Alvaro. 

Cease to interrupt me. 
The King, resentful of the Prince's absence 
From council and the court, even now in secret 
Revolves some plan of wrath. As yet he's silent: 
But soon — you know Alphonso's deep, dark soul, 
His fury, scornful of it's long confinement, 
Will burst it's chains, and rush upon it's object. 
This visit, if I deem aright, to Coimbra 
Teems with events of moment. Old Gonsalez, 
With all his country's rancour to Castile, 
And mad to see the Prince protect her exiles, 
Still goads the monarch's angry purposes, 
And drags them into act. 

r3 



246 

COELLO. 

This is most certain. 
For the old courtier's hate to proud Castile, 
And to her foster'd exiles, mocks disguise, 
Points still his tongue, and tinges it with venom. 
The King remarks it, and it seems to please him. 
Alvaro. 
'Tis true it does. Our part is easy then: 
To join Gonsalez in his patriot malice, 
Be loud and instant in our country's cause, 
Wait on the monarch's weakness, rouse his jealousies, 
Alarm his pride, condense the storm of passion, 
And pour it full on Pedro and his mistress. 
Then, fall howe'er it may, it works our good. 
Only, with carefull heed, observe yourself: 
Let no eruption of your fiery nature 
Disclose the latent mine!— in public feeling 
Lose all the private ! — be Coello's wrongs 
O'erwhelm'd in Portugal's! 



247 

COELLO. 

I'm school'd and tame ! 
Alvaro. 
Be confident the man that wounds my friend, 
Must be my foe ; — that Pedro has my hate. 
But I should blush to bear so weak a spirit, 
As not to greet him with the looks of kindness 
AVhen most his presence pain'd me. From a friend 
The blow which reaches to a prince must come. 
Remember this ! be close ! be cool ! 
Coello. 

I Will; 
And force my swelling bosom to subside 
At wisdom's soft command. But see the King, 
Impatient of our ling' ring, comes to meet us ! 
Gonsalez with him ! 

Enter Alphonso and Gonsalez. 
Alvaro. 
This great goodness, Sire ! 
Augments the weight of favours which already 
r4 



248 

Oppresses your poor servant: on my knee 
Thanks, gracious sovereign! 

Alphonso. 

Alvaro, rise ! 
I know, and pardon the slow foot of love 
Dragging with fond reluctance from the threshold 
Of his fair mistress. But my wonder's great 
That this same puling sickness of the mind, 
Proper to girls, should thus relax the tone 
Of your strong fibre, — fie! recall the man; 
Think of your name and station! That Alvaro 
Should be a woman's slave your country's voice 
And ours forbids ! 

Alvaro. 

Your majesty is pleased 
Justly to chide the follies of your servant. 
But I would hope my Liege can never deem 
Alvaro's spirit of such fragile matter, 
As to be shatter'd by the hand of love! 
No ! gracious Liege ! it's texture is entire : 



249 

And naught is twisted with it's forming threads, 
But public care and duty to my king. 
Alphonso. 

There spoke our friend Alvaro! Would'st thou see 
The strange transforming power of childish passion, 
Go, look on Pedro ! try to trace in him 
The soldier or the statesman ! — you'll find nothing 
But a poor strumpet's minion! — Oh! 'tis pitiful 
To see the stately temple of his mind, 
Built for imperial fortune, quite o'erthrown; 
And on it's site a paltry pagod rear'd 
To the base monkey-deity of love. 
Gonsalez. 

Your Majesty's strong virtue, which resents 
The soft corruption of enfeebling passion, 
Haply may blot the fault, you mark, too deeply. 
A little dalliance in life's fervid noon, 
Our age may well forgive. The Prince is noble : 
And, though the lure of pleasure may awhile 
Tempt him from duty, yet his generous nature 
Will rally soon, and re-assert her rights. 



250 

True, I lament that easiness which yields him 
To the deception of a worthless woman, 
His country's foe. 

Alpnonso. 
Ay! that's the wound which pains me. 
Pedro might toy away an idle hour 
Unblamed, unquestion'd : 'tis the privilege 
Of his luxuriant years. I too have felt 
The mutiny of blood, and own'd the law, 
Indignant of it's base controll, which forces 
Man to continue his degenerate kind. 
But still my mind was free. Even from my bosom, 
Urged by my country's good, or honour's call. 
I could have thrown the wanton of my bed, 
And pierced her panting breast. But Pedro — Pedro- 
The stain of his descent ! the blush of manhood ! 
Lulls his high honours in a harlot's lap, 
And, for the bribe of a lascivious kiss, 
Betrays his country, sovereign, and himself. 
For him this hasten'd journey. — Yes ! 'tis Pedro 
Who thus defrauds my night of it's repose, 



251 

And tears my aged temples from my pillow. 

Fain would I save him with persuasion's mildness: 

Or, if entire his overthrow of mind, 

With power and just exertion reinstate him. 

You are our friends ; and, though the Prince, our son, 

And heir of Portugal, demand your love, 

Yet do we lean on you with full reliance ; 

Assured, that naught can warp your rectitude, 

When your support is ask'd for us and Portugal. 

GONSALEZ. 

Our sovereign's confidence affirms us to him 
With knots of tenfold strength. — If for myself 
I speak, grown hoary in my Prince's service, 
His will's my conduct ; and my single object 
His and his people's good. 

Coello. 

And so speak I. 
And were the Prince the brother of my blood, 
Throned in the very centre of my heart, 
Thence would I tear him, if my Liege required. 



252 

Alphonso. 
Your loyalty commands your sovereign's thanks. 
But wherefore stands Alvaro silent thus ? 
You love the Prince I know : and 'tis my love 
Alone that can inflict the wound which saves him. 
But say it were not so : — surely the King 
Who raised your house to it's now envied height, 
Who call'd you to his counsels and his bosom, 
Demands the service of your first affection. 
Alvaro. 
I feel it, gracious sovereign ! and that all 
I now possess, above the unnoticed throng, 
Flows from the fountain of your royal bounty — 
Bankrupt of thanks I own. — Let me own, too, 
That, were I not the creature of your favour, 
The manly vigour of my sovereign's soul, 
His stern contempt of pleasure's gilded toys, 
His firm adherence to his people's welfare, 
Would challenge all my bosom to himself, 
And leave no space for any rival there. 



253 

Yet do I love the Prince ! — Heaven knows how truly ! 
And pardon, Sire ! the infirmity which strives 
Vainly to emulate your strong-nerved virtue, 
It wounds me when I think the arm of power 
Must strengthen reason's inefficient voice. 
Alphonso. 
Dismiss the foolish feeling from thy bosom : 
To us commit the means the end may ask ; 
Think thou of duty only and the king. 
Enter Messenger. 

GONSALEZ. 

The man, my Lord ! who bore your majesty's 
High orders to the Prince. 

Alphonso. 
Well, Sir ! — Your business ? — 
Where is the Prince ? 

Messenger. 
I found him not, my Liege! 
He left his palace at the break of day, 
They told me, for the chace. 



254 

GoNSALEZ. 

Was he alone? 
Or how attended ? 

Messenger. 

It was said, my Lord ! 
A banish'd noble of Castile was with him, 
When he took horse. — Of more I cannot speak. 
Alphonso. 
Your errand is discharged — enough— away ! 

[Ex. Mess. 
Gone to the chace! ay, 'tis the chace, I fear, 
Of thy dishonour, Pedro ! and should not 
Our guardian kindness intercept the danger, 
Thou would'st o'ertake thy ruin. Love's his game ! 
And the warm sport has led him to Mondego: 
There to abase beneath a woman's feet 
The pride of manhood, and his country's hope ! 
Gonsalez. 
Perhaps his comrade, the Castilian fugitive, 
Prompt to absolve his debt of gratitude, 



255 

Might press the excursion to Mondego's walls, 
To kneel, and print on the white hand of Inez 
Thanks for her sovereign patronage. 
Alphonso. 

Ay! there 
The string you touch'd was discord. Portugal 
111 bears, I know, this partial waste of favour 
On her proud foes. Besides, protection given 
To those who fly his just authority, 
May kindle anger in our brother Pedro, 8 
Who with a weighty sceptre sways Castile, 
And float our Portugal with crimson Avar. 
It must not be. — Yet to prevent it asks 
No common counsels. Lenient to his weakness 
The people love him ; and his doating mother, 
Enamour'd of his very fault, embraces 
It's wanton object. Be it your care, Coello, 
To bear our pleasure to this truant prince ; 

* The Cruel of Castile. 



256 

And say his king expects his instant presence. 
Your labour will be easy ! — at Mondego 
You'll find, I think, the chacer and the prey ! 
Coello. 
I fly, my Liege, upon the wings of duty, 
To execute your will. [Ex. Coello. 

Alphonso. 

And now, my lords, 
I yield you to yourselves. Think of the means 
To give your sovereign's purposes effect : 
And when Coello's mission is accomplish'd, 
Ere the sun reach it's noon, we'll meet again. 
Heavens ! shall the throne of Portugal be made 
The couch of sloth and wantonness? — No, lords! 
The occasion bids us wake our slumbering force, 
And shew us to our people like ourselves : 
Firm in our palace, as the field : — nor more 
Unmann'd by partial kindness than by fear. [Exeunt. 

END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



257 



ACT II. 



Pedro and Inez. 

Pedro. 
O my soul's happiness! — without whom life 
Were but a cheerless gloom ! how slow have crept 
The sullen hours since late I left your arms! 
Thus let me hold you! In your sweet society 
Time scarce is felt to be ; though all it's minutes 
Are lively with delight, and each relates 
A separate tale of bliss. But say, my fair, 
What grief has veil'd the lustre of your eyes; 
And on your cheek, the rosy seat of joy, 
Planted it's paler ensign ? 

Inez. 

O my Pedro! 
More welcome than the light to him, who pines 
In the dark dungeon's bosom, is your presence 
s 



258 

To these glad eyes ; — before it all my cares 
Light fly, as spectres from the sovereign glance 
Of the sun, mounted on his eastern throne. 
You talk of absence and it's pains, my Pedro, 
Whose manly firmness gives the strength to bear them. 
How must they wound my breast, where they encounter 
A mind as sensitive, and far more weak ? 
Business with you eludes the wants of love, 
And public cares withdraw you from your Inez : 
For your proud fortune will not stint to one, 
What thousands justly claim. — But, left by thee, 
I'm wholly reft: — for thou art all I own! 
And vain each art to lose thy loved idea 
Even for a moment. — Hopeless still to please, 
The Muse unstrings the lyre or folds the page, 
And spares the unheeded strain. Where'er I walk 
Some object brings thee to my love-sick thought. 
Each tree, our shade at noon ; each flower that blooms. 
Fringing the path which winds along the stream, 
Our haunt at evening, as the nightingale 



259 

Trills her melodious love, still speaks of thee! 
But, O my Pedro! much I fear my bliss, 
Possess'd of thee, has more in it of Heaven 
Than is indulged to this dim lower world. 
Ah ! much I fear it's raptures will be short! 
Pedro. 
Inez! forbear this jealousy of fate, 
This cold mistrust of Heaven ; whose watchful care 
Attends on innocence like thine, averts 
The shafts of danger; and, when pestilence 
Rides on the lurid clouds, bids the breeze waft 
Health to thy favour' d mansion. Death, indeed, 
At last must come ! but after many a year 
Of pure protracted bliss: — and when he comes, 
His touch so lightly shall dissolve the ties, 
Which bind thee to our world, that the great change 
Shall pass unfelt ; the cause alone of wonder, 
Of joy and holy praise. 



260 

Inez. 

Alas, my Pedro! 
Your passion forms the excellence it sees 
In it's poor object. — All my boast of goodness 
Is purity of crime : and can this ask 
The immediate guardianship of Heaven ? — Besides, 
Who can explore the ways of Providence ? 
Thick darkness veils them, and forbids the sight. 
I know not whence or wherefore I should fear, 
But yet, alas! I fear! — 'Tis the suspicion 
Alone perhaps of my too happy fortune! 
Yet here it lies— by day a cold oppression, 
And in the night, a ghastly fiend to shape 
The affliction of my dreams. 

Pedro. 

Let reason, Inez, 
Dispel imagination's dark abuse : 
Gild all your days with joy, your nights with slumbers 
Pure as an infant's, brilliant as a saint's! 



261 

Ah! whence, my dearer life ! this strange emotion? 
That sigh ; this liquid gem which, trembling shines 
On your swell'd lid? speak the mysterious cause 
Of anguish or alarm ! — Is not the vow, 
Which at the holy altar made you mine, 
Witness'd and seal'd in Heaven? Has not my love, 
Outrun the engagement of the hallow'd contract? 
Or can a doubt injurious to my faith 
Touch your soft bosom, when my heart submits 
Not as your beauty's, but your virtue's subject? 
No, no, my Inez! — to your troubled spirit 
Whisper sweet tales of peace;— of happiness; 
Of coming greatness ; — of officious crowds, 
Pressing with duteous love to touch your hand, 
To kneel before your throne, and gaze upon 
The wonder of your soul-illumined features, 
Reflecting lustre on the gold that crowns them ! 
Inez. 
Talk not of greatness, Pedro! — I'm too great, 
s3 



262 

I fear, already!— would that the kind Heavens 
Had given me Pedro in an humbler state ; — 
Above the pains of want, but yet beneath 
Those strong inquietudes, which shake the lofty. 
'Tis true, possessing thee, in any fortune 
I had been envy's mark : but now the fury 
Pursues me with the fulness of her rancour; 
Taints my pure fame, stains my unsullied conduct, 
Points to my ruin as the public wish, 
And opens on me all the cry of state. 
At last she'll seize her prey, and thou, perhaps, 
Avert the danger, Heaven! may'st fall with Inez! 
Pedro. 
Relieve your tender bosom of it's pain! 
My fortune is too strong to dread the sap, 
The lurking cowardice of court intrigue. 
It's rocky bulwarks are my country's laws, 
My country's love: and, while secure my fortune, 
What danger can approach with it's alarm 
To touch my fair! my joy! my pride! — my wife! 



263 

I know not, Pedro! — At another moment 
The honied breath, your love has lavished on me, 
Would have allay'd the pangs of any care 
My bosom ever felt : — but let me own, — 
With blushes own, this ill without a name 
Baffles the healing medicine of your lips, 
And ceases not to throb! — Last night my sleep 
Was so deform'd with images of terror, 
That still the impression's buried in my heart, 
Beyond the hand of reason to erase! 
Pedro. 

And is a dream the parent of this anguish 
That preys upon your spirits ! — Dreams, my fair one, 
Are Fancy's sports ! — When judgment's cell is lock'd, 
The enchantress yokes her dragon-wain, and, swifter 
Than the sun-beam ranging the universe, 
From earth, air, flood, and fire culls parts of things, 
Combines and limbs them with capricious wildness; 
Spurns order, time, and place : — then madly boasts 
Her strange creation, form'd in proud defiance 



264 

Of truth and nature's plan. O let not shadows 
Affright your mind from reason's guardian arms! 
Perish the dream's memorial, as the dawn 
Levels it's air-built fabric. 

Inez. 

Ne'er before 
Did I respect the mimic power of sleep, 
Nor have it's visions e'er before oppress'd me. 
Still has it shewn, as in a broken mirror, 
Some odd, disorder'd semblance of the day, 
And with the likeness pleased me ! — But this night, 
This dreadful night, presented to my eyes, 
In such distinct and vivid portraiture, 
A scene of woe, so wond'rous and unthought of, 
That it should seem the immediate hand of Heaven 
Tracing too surely the dread doom of fate. 

Pedro. 
Think not with such deep sadness of a nothing! 
And cease to rend your bosom and your Pedro's 
With pangs of visionary woe !~But, Inez, 



265 

Relate the dream which thus could disarrange 
A mind attuned as thine. 

Inez. 
My tongue will falter, 
Yet shall it tell thee all. — Alone, methought, 
I wander'd weary o'er an unknown waste. 
Dark was the scene, save when the bursting clouds 
With fitful fires disclosed it's dreariness 
Wrapp'd in a livid sheet. The winds were high; 
And, shrieking o'er the desert, struck my frame 
So rudely that it trembled. My heart sank; 
When suddenly a dreadful voice appall'd me, — 
Ah! how unlike to thine! — it thunder'd — Inez! 
And seem'd the demon's of the storm ! — I turn'd 
And straight perceived myself the helpless captive 
Of ruffian force ! 

Pedro. 
Where— where was Pedro then ? 
Sprang not his falchion to avenge the wrong? 



266* 

Inez. 

Alas ! thou wast not there — when I was dragg'd 
Before what seem'd a cloud, by deeper blackness 
Distinguish'd from the night. I scarcely saw it: 
But felt it's icy influence in my breast; 
And heard it cry, " Hence ! Justice ! take her hence ! 
This pest of Portugal! this shame of Pedro!" 
I would have sued for mercy — call'd to Heaven, 
On thee, — but my weak tongue refused it's office. 
The rest was some wild horror. Whelm'd beneath 
The roar of waves I seem'd : a direful tumult 
Astonish'd every sense : my labouring lungs 
Struggled in vain to heave: my sick eyes swam 
In night — with hollow noises rang my ears ! 
I tried to scream — and in the painful effort 
Awaked, — scarce yet assured of life, and feeling 
The damps of death cold in my pausing heart a 
And clust'ring on my skin ! 



267 

Pedro. 
No wonder, Inez, 
This dream should shake thee rudely, since it's terror 
Assails even me, though proud in my resistance 
To these fantastic mockeries of night. 
But be it now forgotten ! Let thy bosom 
Be calm again as infant innocence: 
Smooth as the liquid surface, which the breath 
Of summer gently fans, and ruffles not. 
Let superstition, with her pale disease, 
Weaken and harass common minds: — be thine 
The health of reason, by religion foster'd. 
Rely on Heaven ! — and as Heaven's means, on me 
To shield thy weakness from the human tempest. 
In these fond arms, which close thee to my heart, 
Resign the throb of danger ! 

Inez. 

Oh! my Pedro! 
My soul emerges from her depth of gloom ; 
And, having shared with you her load of anguish, 



268 

Is lighten'd and restored! — I now could smile 
At my late weakness : — but I'll never more 
Distress you with the phantoms of my pillow. 
The Queen approaches! tell her not your Inez 
Doats like her aged nurse ! 

Enter Queen. 
Pedro. 

My honour'd parent! 
Thus low upon his knee your son presents 
The tender of his duty and his love. 
Inez. 
And thus I bend in gratitude to her, 
Who dried the tears which dew'd a mother's hearse; 
Call'd me to life, and bade me live her own ! 
Queen. 
Rise, my dear children! and a mother's blessing 
Rest on you both! I joy to see you, Pedro, 
So soon return'd to your fair spouse, whose spirits 
Fade in your absence ;— -yet I wish she'd often 
Consent to chide you hence, and spare the present, 
To give the future happiness assurance ! 



269 

Pedro. 
Why speaks my mother thus? threats any danger 
To make precaution wisdom ? 

Queen. 
None perhaps. 
But age, my son, like mine, is prone to tremble 
Where youth sees naught but safety ! — Well you know 
The proud dominion of your father's temper, 
Sterner from opposition. He regards 
Your absence from his court as slighted duty : 
And calls it's fond occasion dotage, — baseness, — 
Degenerate and shameless luxury, 
Sullying Alphonso's heir! — say, would not then 
Some condescension to the monarch's wishes, 
Some blending with his counsels and his court, 
Tend to recall his love, and thus prevent 
The stroke of ambush'd mischief! 
Inez. 

Sovereign lady! 
Beloved as she who bore me ! all your fears 



270 

Throb in my breast, with more — alas! my mother! 
Dear as I hold my Pedro, doat upon him, 
Feed on his looks, and live beneath his eye; 
Yet has my frequent suit implored his absence 
To soothe the ambition of his father's wish, 
And grant the claim of pride. — O my full heart 
Will burst with it's alarms! 

Pedro. 

Mere fancy-form'd! 
'Tis true my father's harsh, but not unjust; 
Severe, not cruel ; — and my duteous service 
Has ever pleaded for a son's regard. 
If I renounce the court, 'tis my contempt 
Of it's poor craft, the counterfeit of wisdom : 
'Tis my resentment of it's gaudy crimes, 
It's fatal whispers, and it's traitor smiles, 
Which keeps me from it's circle, It distracts me 
To see Gonsalez, with his hoary crown, 
Depose the just supremacy of reason. 
And give the throne to idiot prejudice. 



271 

To see Alvaro, in his own dark bosom, 
Brooding o'er plans of mischief,— while deceit 
Plays on his cheek, as the light sunbeam dances 
On the quick surface of the deep abyss. 
To see Velasquez, Nunio, and Coello, 
Self-placed on wisdom's summit, looking down 
In mimic majesty on subject man, 
Their scorn and base of greatness! — O my mother! 
To view the dull, mysterious, guilty scene, 
Fatigues and pains me. 

Queen. 
Minds like thine, my son, 
May well contemn the pomps, abhor the crimes 
Which stain or gild a court: — but, oh ! reflect 
That, to walk safely in an age like this, 
Virtue and wisdom must consent to veil 
The fulness of their beauty, and beware 
Not to offend with lustre. Every sot, 
And knave, rebuked by your superior merit, 



272 

Becomes your foe; — and not an arm so weak 
But may inflict a blow to wound the strongest. 
Those, whom you scorn, — Coello and Alvaro,— 
May give their hate a shape to cause you harm. 
Pedro. 
They cannot — I am raised above their power 
Too high to fear it's workings ; and my conduct 
Has still been clear, and strong to meet the foe. 
Queen. 
Be not secure beyond what reason warrants. 
Assuming on your father's alter'd countenance, 
Your enemies alarm and harass him 
With hints and dark suggestions. All your actions 
Are tortured from their truth : — even your protection 
Of the Castilian exiles has been call'd 
Treason to Portugal ! 

Inez. 
Ah! dearest Madam! 
Can charity be crime? 



273 

Pedro. 

Never, my Inez ! 
What! blame me for admitting the demand 
Of man on man, the common child of woe ? 
It cannot be! — Had these poor fugitives 
Spurn' d at their country's statutes; — bared her bosom 
To the invader's steel: wasted her fields 
With hostile flames ; exposed her babes and sires 
To slaughter; her chaste matrons to the grasp 
Of staining violation, — were they deep 
In guilt like this, I would abandon them, 
Almost without a tear, to the stern justice 
Of beggary and scorn : but all their crime 
Is flight from a fierce tyrant; is obedience 
To nature's voice, enjoining care of life! 
Queen. 
I know it, Pedro! but your father's eye 
Sees with strange vision, and beholds their conduct 
Black with rebellion to their rightful prince: 
The smile that cheers revolters then must sanction 

T 



274 

Resistance in the subject; and your foes 
Loudly proclaim the murmurs of our nobles, 
Denied their equal prince. — Be prudent therefore: 
Awhile be sparing of this slander'd goodness : 
Frequent the court with countenance and conduct- 
Adjusted to the times ; and, oh! remember! 
Lock'd in your bosom's inmost cell retain 
The secret of your nuptials. You, my daughter, 
Yield for a season to resign your name 
(As I for you, perhaps, surrender mine) 
To the world's censure : — soon shall it throw off 
The imputed stain, and claim it's proper honours. 
Inez. 

Yes, dearest Sovereign! — for my Pedro's sake, 
Welcome even loss of fame ; — be virtue safe ! 
For only to my Pedro, and my God, 
I live. 

Pedro. 

Thanks, Inez ! — and my honour'd mother, 
Your will shall order mine. — Yes, I will form 
My tongue to smooth hypocrisy; will breathe 



•275 

The tainted court, and seem to be what worlds 
Should never draw me from my pride to be ! 
Queen. 
Your prompt adoption of my counsels, Pedro, 
Is pleasure to my heart ; and soon I trust, 
The clouds, which threaten, will resolve to air, 
And all again be bright. As now to find you 
I traversed yonder walks, a stranger met me, 
Of venerable aspect, and a mien 
Of high command. — Regardless of the beauties 
Of water, hill, and vale, of flowering groves, 
And lawns, bespangled with the gems of morning- 
Fresh kindled by the sun, — his eyes were fix'd; 
And absent seem'd their sense, fast lock'd in care. 
At my approach, as from remote and gloomy 
Travel, his soul return'd. 

Pedro. 

'Tis well remember'd: 
Who waits without? (enter Servant) Conduct the 
Lord Almada 

T <2 



276 

Here to our presence ! — seek him in the gardens ! 

[Ex. Serv. 
He was our comrade hither.— From Castile, 
Which tyranny still desolates, he fled 
Last night to Coimbra. Inez and my mother 
Had chased him from my thought. But see he comes. 

Enter Almada. 
The Queen, my Lord Almada ! and her friend 
The lady of this mansion. 

Queen. 
Welcome, Sir, 
To Portugal! that opens wide her arms 
To infold and cherish merit in distress. 
Almada. 
Your Grace's courtesy infuses balm 
Into a stranger's wounds.— Thrice happy Portugal! 
Where virtue sits with greatness on the throne; 
And conscious interest, joining king and people, 
Supplies the strength resulting from the embrace. 
O favour'd country ! rich in what thou hast ; 



277 

And richer in reversion ! cheer'd I drink 
Thy genial air! and almost lose the feeling 
Of what I am — a wretch ! 

Pedro. 

Renounce, my Lord! 
This commerce with sad thought. Let Portugal, 
That greets you with the adoption of a son, 
Blot out the afflicting record of the past, 
And write anew your fortunes. 
Almada. 

Royal Sir! 
Whose soul is bounty:— if a human voice 
Could still the tempest, which excites the deep; 
Could wake the dead, and call them from the tomb 
To man's warm residence, your power perhaps 
Might calm my troubled breast, and once more lead me 
To the long-closed, — forgotten view of joy! 
Pedro. 
Despair belongs not, Sir, to noble spirits: 
t 3 



278 

It is the cloud which rests on humbler heights : 
The prouder elevation towers above it, 
And swells to meet the light. — Your country yet 
May rise, resentful of her wrongs, and burst 
The yoke which crushes her. 

Almada. 

Ay! there, indeed, 
You open'd comfort to me. In that hope 
Alone I cherish being, — reft as I am 
Of fortune, — sever'd from those amities 
Which grow upon the heart, and roughly push'd 
Naked and lonely to life's stormy verge. 
Yes! — if I bear to live, — 'tis in the hope 
That yet these eyes shall see my country happy, 
Her stern oppressor fallen. — But majesty 
Strikes root so deeply, with such numerous fibres 
Spreads it's adherence to the soil, that, falling, 
It widely propagates the shock and ruin. 
Oh ! would to Heaven ! a blow could reach the tyrant, 
And yet not strike the King! 



279 

Pedro. 

'Tis nobly said. 
To Heaven confide your country's destiny: 
To us our fortunes. Deem this land your own; 
And, certain that the world's great government 
Is in unerring hands, resign your cares. 
Be mine to order for your ease and honour 
Till your Castile recall you to her bosom. 
To-day this lady claims you for her guest. 
Her sweeter voice may lull to sleep your sorrow 
When my hoarse accents fail. 
Inez. 

Oh! that it could! 
But all that the attentions of respect, 
All that my wishes and my prayers can do 
To mitigate the aching of your bosom, 
All — all are your's. 

Almada. 
Accept my duteous thanks, 

T 4 



Most honour'd lady!— goodness great as this 
Subdues me almost into tears. — O pardon! 

[looking earnestly at Inez. 
Or if you must condemn — condemn me rather 
As mad than rude, if I declare those features, 
Form'd to convey delight to every eye, 
Bring anguish to my soul. 

Pedro. 

What mean you, Sir? 
Almada. 
I scarce know what I mean. — That countenance 
Searches a wound ill-closed within my breast ; 
And tears me with a pang, which, 'till this moment, 
I long had lost the taste of. — Surely Heaven 
Never before with such full, si] eet disclosure 
Open'd in human face ! — or if before, 
'Twas only when it brighten'd on the features 
Of— of— Oh ! suffer me to leave you now, 
To hide my weakness, and recall my mind 
Which strangely wanders. 



281 

Pedro. 

Let me, Sir, attend you. 
Tis friendship's just demand! 

[Ex. Alm. and Ped. 
Queen. 

Almada's passion 
Surprises and affects me. These wild starts 
Betray a generous spirit urged to madness 
By Fortune's cruel sport. — My heart bleeds for him! 
Inez. 
And mine feels all his pains. — How statelily 
He stands amid his woes, — like some old temple, 
Majestic in decay. — In him, indeed, 
Nature asserts her privilege of tears ; 
But 'tis as scornful of the pride, which striving 
To lift her where she cannot stand, degrades her. 
'Tis strange, but since I saw this noble exile, 
Something has waked an interest in my bosom 
Active and strong in his behalf. His speech, 
His person, nay, his very lineaments, 



282 

Worn and impair'd indeed by time and sorrow, 
Re-animate a loss, which saddens me 
Even in this high felicity of fortune, 
Bless'd in your friendship, and my Pedro's love, 
Queen. 
Is it a father's loss, which thus affects you? 
Regard it, Inez ! as the law of nature,- 
That parent's tombs should drink the tears of children : 
That age should pass away and youth succeed, 
As falls the mellow'd ripeness of the tree, 
While the green fruitage swells. 
Inez. 

'Tis true, dear Madam ! 
And daring not to blame, I must lament it. 
But, ah ! my sire, not by the kindly hand 
Of nature gather'd, fell before his season, 
Torne rudely from the weeping branch. — Even now, 
Young as I was at the dire scene of woe, 
I see Fernandez drop ; — his deed of life 
Rent by unhallow'd hands ! 



283 

Queen. 

'Twas sad indeed! 
But think of it no more. Your filial love 
Hath fully paid it's sorrows to Fernandez: 
And, in his sanctuary of holy rest, 
No cares of yours can touch him. — From the dead 
Then turn to bless the living. — Reassume 
The sparkle of your mind ; and with your spirits, 
Dress'd in their bridal splendour, cheer your Pedro. 
For him and you my dearest services 
Shall be employ'd. — Be happy, and assured ! 
Farewell! at noon we'll meet again. [Ear. 

Inez. 

Thanks, Madam! 
Ah! whence is this, that thus to be alone 
Disquiets and alarms me? — Guilt, they say, 
Fears solitude. — But guilt and I are strangers; 
And still I've drawn from converse with my bosom 
That pure delight which the gay crowd denied me. 
What act of mine has then provoked the sentence 
Of exile from myself? — alas! I know not. 



284 

But the pure fountain of my thought is -troubled 
As by a hand unseen: — and my light spirits, 
Form'd of the morning's more etherial essence, 
Which wont to move with quick but even pace, 
Now wildly flit about as from some danger, 
Unnoticed by the mind's exploring eye. 
What can it mean ? — is it the night's" vain terror, 
Which, victor of my reason, still pursues me ? 
Is't Nature? — or is it rather the felt presence 
Of some celestial guardian, sent in mercy 
To warn my careless state, and haply fit it 
To meet approaching change ?— nor is the thought 
Vain or unwarranted. — Heaven's angel-host, 
By the decree of man's all-gracious Sire, 
Attend on man, to guide his wilder'd steps 
Through this benighted world, — to aid his virtue, 
jnform his will, and reinforce his purpose. 
But why perplex and tire myself with doubts ? 
Be thou my friend, my God ! if I have served thee 
With my best love: — or, if the soft illusion 
Of pleasure ever has seduced me from thee, 



285 

Pardon it, and restore me to thy blessing! 
Then bid my wild heart rest, assured that evil 
Can never then approach me. — Is it fancy ? 
Or feel I not already a soft calm 
Diffusing o'er my mind ? — I'll sit and read. 
The lore of ancient piety and wisdom 
May tranquillize me more! — 

Enter Coello. 
Coello (aside.) 

What Inez here! 
Alone! — Now spirit of Alvaro aid me! 
The attempt is great; — success were glorious triumph ; 
Revenge and pleasure both ! 

Inez. 
Whose voice was that? 
My Pedro's? — Ha! my Lord Coello! speak 
The cause from whence the honour of this visit? 
Coello. 
Start not nor be surprised, most beauteous Inez ! 



286 

I come not as a foe. — My thought is peace ; 
And my heart's inmost wish your happiness. 
Inez. 
I'm thankful to you, Sir. 

CoELLO. 

Yes, fairest Inez ! 
Of all the past be nothing now remember'd 
But my true service and my virtuous friendship ! 

Inez. 

Tis well, Sir! 

COELLO. 

Perish, Madam, all my wrongs ! 
My sighs and tears, soliciting affection, 
Be living still, and pleading for return ! 
Inez. 
I understand you not: — your wrongs you say. 
Declare the wrong which you can charge to me, 
And I will sue for pardon. Did I ever 
Foster a hope, and when mature destroy it ? 



287 

Have I betray'd, or flatter'd, or upbraided ? 
Even when I gave refusal to your hand — 
Coello. 
O death! 

Inez. 
Did I inflict an useless pang ? 
I felt no triumph, and I hurt no pride. 
My heart I could not give; — and my hand only 
My virtue would not. — I referr'd you justly 
To your more equal fortune, 

Coello. 

Virtue ! — Madam ! 
You talk it well ! — But be the past extinct ; 
I think of it no more. — Then let our loves 
Be born again in this auspicious hour, 
And flourish with new life. — By this I swear— 

[Offering to take her hand. 
Inez. 
Hence, Sir! — forbear ! — your words have been enough. 
My ear has been too patient. — I must leave you. 

[going 



288 

COELLO. 

'Tis strange she awes me. (aside) — Inez ! — stay — yet 
stay! 
You're deceiv'd! — What can I say? (aside) The love 
Which here I tender you is that of honour, 
Inviting you to virtue's arms. 
Inez. 

From whence 
This strange delusion, that the suit, which fail'd 
To touch me in my poor and lonely state, 
Should move me now in my changed happier fortunes? 
Withdraw, Sir !— for the world's worth I would not 
That here you should be seen. 
Coello. 

Of that I'm careless ! 
Your happier fortunes ! — art thou then so tutor'd 
To call them happier? — Is it now thy creed 
That wealth and splendour, and a royal lover 
Form happiness? — that virtue, peace, and fame 
Are creatures of the lips, — mere vocal breath ? 
O shame ! deep shame ! 



2S9 

Inez. 

For Heaven's sake, say—what would you ? 
Coello. 
Instruct thee in the value of my offer; 
Tell thee — to raise thee to thy own esteem; 
Once more endow thee with the world's opinion; 
Give thee more certain, and more honest wealth ; 
And take thee to my arms — even as thou art, 
Stain'd and dishonour'd — 

Inez. 
Sir, — I'll hear no more! 
Is this your friendship, to abuse the power, 
Lent by a casual moment, to assail me 
With poignant calumny? — Could I regard 
Aught human with contempt, I'd scorn the man 
Who arms his malice with the points of falsehood. 
Coello. 
Falsehood ! — Why, madam, custom may destroy 
The sense of crime;— but the stout fact survives 
The death of conscience. — Art thou not then — 
u 



290 

Inez. 

What? 

COFLLO. 

The Prince's mistress? 
Inez. 

Heavens! 
Coello. 

Employ'd to heighten 
His hour of pleasure? — Why, 'tis Lisbon's story ! 
Each street proclaims thy shame; and all it's echoes 
Discourse of Pedro's strumpet! 
Inez. 

Heaven befriend me ! 
Oh! help! 

Enter Pedro. 
Pedro. 
What's this, my Inez? — ha! what ruffian 
Has dared to violate this holy place? 
Speak wretch your name and business ! — or this hour 
Shall be your last of life !— •— 



291 

COELLO. 

My name's Coello! (turning to Pedro) 
My business here — your father's! 
Pedro. 
What! — my father's? 
To offer violence to those my power 
And love protect?— Hint not the rash suggestion ! 
Or, for the slander of my father's name, 
Your life shall be the forfeit! 
Inez. 
Hold, my Pedro! (running to Pedro J 
Let not an error urge you to a deed, 
Which may hereafter pain you ! 
Coello. 
Stay him not! 
I used no violence! — Nay, let him go! 
My blood may show his duty to his sire, 
Whose delegate I am, directed hither 
To bid the Prince attend the King at Coimbra 
On business of much weight. 
U 2 



Pedro. 

Is't possible ? 
The king at Coimbra? — my attendance order' cl? 
Is this your tale ? 

COELLO. 

It is! — and it is true. 
I come, the herald of your better fame, 
To summon you from pleasure ! — from the lap 
Of that false woman, whom you basely stole ! 
Pedro. 
Villain, forbear! nor urge my temper further; 
Lest not thy master's name, which thou dishonour'st, 
Should yield thee safety ! — Hence ! — thy present con- 
duct, 
If I can stoop my haughty soul so low 
As to regard a thing like thee, — shall yet 
Meet it's due censure. 

Coello. 
'Tis not in my fortune 
To dread your threats.— Alphonso's power protects me : 



293 

And you and your fair harlot may perhaps 
Have juster cause to fear. 

Pedro. 

Away ! — no more ! — 

[Ex. Co EL. 
Inez. 
Ah ! Pedro ! — what is this ? — The King so near us I 
You to attend him ! and his minister 
Sent in high wrath away ! — My fever-fit 
Returns with double chill. Farewell ! sweet peace! 
Never again, I fear, shalt thou revisit 
This breast, thy once loved seat. — O Pedro! — Pedro! 
If the bad star, which govern'd at my birth, 
Must still controll the heavens, permit it not 
To strike your guiltless fortunes. — Oh ! resign me 
To my own fate, — no more the bane of your's. 
Deep in the bosom of some hallow'd mansion 
I'll give myself to God : and if a thought 
Of thee, and all our loves, should sometimes steal me 
From my Redeemer's arms, — even superstition, 
u 3 



294 

Relenting, may absolve the woman's frailty : 
And, when I sleep in the cold grave, afford me 
The holy charity of prayer. 

Pedro. 

O Inez! 
Cease from this fond despair ! — Think now no more 
Of any wrongs this man had power to -offer, 
Mad as he is with slighted love !— To thee 
These gates shall never more admit the ruffian j 
And me he cannot touch. I'll to my father: 
With the best, fondest duty of a son 
Be suitor for his love ; and then, with spirits 
Lighten'd of all that can oppress, — return 
To say your fears are vain. — Adieu ! my fair ! 
Smile at the past as at your dream's prediction : 
And hasten to your garden, which solicits 
Your hand's soft tendance for it's lovely tribes ; 
And opens all it's beauty, all it's fragrance 
To lap your senses in delight. Farewell ! 



295 

Inez. 
Farewell ! — I go ! — but all the charming scene, 
Which breathes and blushes round me, cannot give 
Ease to a thought, or pleasure to a sense, 
'Till your return restore me to myself! [Exeunt. 



END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



u4 



296 



ACT III. 



Theresa and Alvaro. 

Theresa. 
How has your suit, my Lord Alvaro; speeded 
With Leonora? — at your late interview 
Her temper was not, as I fear, adjusted 
To meet a lover: — Pedro's cruelty 
Had somewhat disarranged it. 

Alvaro. 

So I thought. 
For my fair mistress seem'd, indeed, unsettled 
As seas when lash'd with winds. The storm at first 
Wrought high and threaten'd: — but it soon subsided 
And all was hush'd again: — I now regard myself 
A thriving wooer. 

Theresa. 

'Twas my management 
To bring her to your wishes by despair, 



297 

Thence where her happiness is deeply rooted ; 
And whence despair alone has power to drag her. 
Counsell'd by me she wrote this morn to Pedro 
To lure him to her house, not in the terms 
Effused by love to melt, but in the strain 
Of injured worth, and haughty jealousy, 
Not sparing his loved Inez ! . 

Alvaro. 

That was well. 

Theresa. 
I bore the letter, saw the poison work; 
And of it's strong effect in Pedro's answer 
I soften' d naught, nor bated her a pang: 
Though to be witness of her poignant anguish 
Touch'd me with pity to the quick. 

Alvaro. 

Your conduct, 
Theresa, claims my thanks, and something more. 
Still give my wishes aid: observe the passes, 



298 

Which well thou know'st, of Leonora's heart; » 
Procure me entrance, and exclude the foe ; 
And then assure yourself that young Ximenes, 
(Nay, blush not! 'tis a just and fair attachment, 
And I can sway his choice) shall be your own, 
With all my interest laboring to advance him. 

Theresa. 
My thanks are your's: and all my power to serve 
you. 
But you must now endue my will with action, 
And teach it to be useful. Leonora, 
I fear, still fosters in her heart a hope 
Of Pedro's hand. 

Alvaro. 
She does ; and at this crisis, 
Roused by the expected downfall of her rival, 
That hope is lively. Something must be done 
To give it the death-blow. Let me consider; 
Pedro comes here to-day— *— 



299 

Theresa. 

Comes here to-day! 
Alvaro. 
The event is certain : on his father's summons 
He will be here to-day : the business, — Inez. 
Now were he taught to deem our Leonora 
An active mover in this plot of ruin, 
That urges his fair mistress, and 'tis likely, 
The very letter which you bore this morning 
Seeming to vouch the story, his touch'd feeling 
Would quickly blaze, and in it's strong disclosure 
Might hurry Leonora from the hope, — 
Perhaps the wish — of future reconcilement. 
Theresa. 
What ! if I frame a letter in the hand, 
Which well my art can imitate, and name 
Of Leonora, fill'd with warm reproaches 
For my past wrongs, and hiding not my triumph 
At some near evil, darkly shadow'd out, 
Ready to burst on Inez, 



300 

Alvaro. 

'Tis a plan 
Of specious promise, if you so could order it, 
That they should meet then when his bosom heaved 
With it's first quick emotions. Could this be, 
'Twere well to raise her hope perhaps— to dash it 
With a more mortal fall. 

Theresa. 
I'll try to be 
The efficient engine of your wish ; though hard 
To tear a woman's pride from the bright circle 
Which binds the royal brow! But let us part; 
That no suspicion waken in the breast 
Of Leonora, whom I see advancing. [Exit. 

Enter Leonora. 
Alvaro. 
My Leonora ! all my soul is your's ! 
Your charms, your virtues, and your smiles assert it, 
Leonora. 
No more, I pray, Alvaro! Lives the hope 
Of that bad woman's fall? 



301 

Alvaro. 

I press'd the King 
By Pedro's valued safety to remove her ; 
And urged the cause of Portugal, that wept, 
And, blushing for her Prince, implored relief 
From the infliction of an alien's power. 
Nor did I plead in vain. Ere night descend, 
And the lone owl prolong her fatal note, 
Your eyes may see the serpent-hatch of vengeance, 
And Inez in a state no more to hurt you. 

Leonora. 
Me ! — let it pass howe'er. — Your merit's great 
To Portugal, to all who hold their country 
In dear esteem. For me — I live to praise, 
To recompense your deed. 

Alvaro. 

My Leonora! — 

The King, unwilling to unfold his couusels 
In Pedro's palace, where the very walls, 
With latent life devoted to their lord, 



302 

Might catch, and mar his purposes, intends 
To hold his close divan beneath your roof. 
He charged me to commend his kingly service 
To your fair self, and to disclose his pleasure. 
Leonora. 
He makes my mansion proud!— my life and fortunes 
Are his — so tell the King. 

Alvaro. 

I will not fail. 
Soon shall you hear eventful tidings from me. 
Pedro is order'd to attend. 

Leonora. 
What here? 
Say you the Prince? — Where comes he? Speak, and 

when ? 
Declare it all i 

Alvaro. 
Our council claims his presence; 
And such the pressure of his father's mandate, 
That soon he must be here. But why thus moved ? 



303 

Leonora. 
I had forgotten — (aside) — Moved? — why no — -not 

moved! 

I'm calm ; — though here to have my Sovereign roof d, 
Sitting in awful synod on the fate 
Of Portugal and Pedro, well might throw 
My spirits from their balance. I must hence, 
And seek Theresa, who expects my coming. [Ex. 

Alvaro. 
In time you seek her; she's prepared and lesson'd 
For your reception ! — What ! Coello here ! 
Disturbance in his mien! — Heaven grant the boys 

(Enter Coello.) 
Have quarrell'd for their drab! — How now, Coello! 
Where's the Prince? 

Coello. 
I come to seek the King. 
The Prince was at Mondego : but my business 
Is instant with the King. 



304 

Alvaro. 
I'll not detain you. 
But let me, as a friend, be taught from whence 
This strong disorder in your countenance : 
These hurried accents : some untoward event 
Hath cross'd you at Mondego, 

Coello. 

Hear me then. 
I went, and found the faithless fair alone. 
More lovely through a veil of tender sorrow 
Her beauties shone, as when the sun at noon 
Through a cloud's silky fleece sheds soften'd day. 
I saw, — and all my love, — (forbear to wonder, 
Hadst thou been there, even thou of force hadst loved) 
Revived, and urged me not to lose the moment 
Of great attempt. I sued and press' d — nay — shame 
Strangles my speech — O blush for me, my friend! 
ProfFer'd again my hand! 

Alvaro. 
And 'twas accepted? 



305 

COELLO. 

No! — wonderful! — amid her vice she stands 
Erect with all the loftiness of virtue. 
By Heavens ! — she spurn'd the offers of my passion 
With pride; nay, with resentful modesty. 
Alvaro. 

The strumpet of the Prince then bears it high. 
Perhaps 'twas honour, which disdain'd to make 
A prize of weakness: — or 'twas female niceness, 
That would not gorge you with the Prince's surfeit. 

CoELLO. 

My curses wither them ! — But I relieved 
My bosom of it's spleen. My strong reproaches 
Urged the meek harlot's conscience from it's slumbers 
To chill her guilty heart, and flush her cheek. 
But ere my just revenge was satisfied, 
Pedro appear'd. 

Alvaro. 

And I can guess the rest. 
x 



306 

His wrath burn'd fiercely, and I fear your spirit 
Kindled with equal flame. 

Coello. 

It did indeed. 
But who, — the ravish'd treasure in his sight, 
The spoiler by, and breathing foul affronts, 
Could give a thought to prudence, or restrain 
The lion in his heart ? 

Alvaro. 
I cannot blame it. 
Lament indeed I may ;— for let the father 
Rate as he will his son, the king will yet 
Enforce respect from subjects to their prince. 
But hasten to Alphonso : tell your stor^ ; 
And wooe his favour ere the Prince can see him. 
Should this unlucky business come before us, 
I must appear your foe, that I may serve you 
With more assured effect— Stay then no longer ! 
Gonsalez coming speaks the hour of council 
At hand, if not arrived. [Ex. Coel. 



307 

Enter Gonsalez. 
Gonsalez. 

4 

Was it Coello, 
Who parted hence, Alvaro? 

Alvaro. 

Yes, Gonsalez! 
He parted hence in haste to seek the king, 
With tidings from Mondego. 

Gonsalez. 
Heavy tidings 
Must he bring thence I fear to Portugal : 
For there has that disastrous woman planted, 
With arts, no doubt, of hell and damned witchcraft, 
The throne of proud Castile, which towers above us, 
And throws us into shade. 

Alvaro. 
I see and feel, 
With eyes and heart like thine, the sad effects 
Of Pedro's dotage; — but I deem it only 
x 2 



308 

The wonted power of woman in it's insult 
Over the pride of man. 

Gonsalez. 
It must be more. 
Would Pedro, wise and continent, abandon 
His fame, his wisdom, and his temperance, 
His father's love, the splendour of the court, 
The affection of the nobles, all that dazzles 
In young ambition's eyes, — for the poor love 
Of a pale girl ? — no, no, it cannot be 
But that the cogency of hellish charms 
Subdues and holds him captive. 
Alvaro. 
True indeed, 
The Prince's conduct almost justifies 
The strange suspicion. 

Enter King and Coello. 
Alphonso. 
Sent away with insult? 
No answer given?-— Am I so highly prized? 



309 

By Heaven ! he holds his honour and his life 
In cheap respect to dally with me thus. 
The offence — attention to his wench ? 
Coello. 

Yes, Sire! 
Attention, not of passion. 

Alphonso. 
"Would it had been; 
And had succeeded ! — that thou might'st have thrown 
The sick'ning morsel to the general mouth, 
To be defaced and tainted 1 

Alvaro* 

May your servant, 
My gracious Liege! inquire the cause that moves you? 
Alphonso. 
Why, the ill-tutor'd boy, Alvaro ! slights us ; 
Vouchsafes to our great bidding no reply ; 
And drives the noble bearer of our orders- 
With contumely from him ! 



x3 



310 

Alvaro. 

Much I wonder 
The Prince should so forget his wonted duty. 
But yet I trust, and dare to pledge myself 
That the offence was error, and his Grace 
Will yet redeem the opinion of your Highness. 
The Prince will come ; — my life upon the event. 
Alphonso. 
'Twere best he did !— but why affront Coello, 
For whom my name solicited respect ? 
Alvaro. 
My honour'd estimation of Coello 
Forbids the thought that any thing in him 
Of speech or bearing could intend offence. 
Yet let me say the Prince's state is such, 
Stripp'd of his proper nature, and all living 
With the quick touch of love, that the light gossamor 
Might prove to him an instrument of torture, 
As the steel whip to us. 

Alphonso. 

You plead most ably 



311 

For this unthinking boy: — but sure I trust 
Coello could not so forget himself, 
Or us, or ours, as to address the Prince 
In terms of disrespect! 

Coello. 

I hope, my sovereign 
Cannot suspect that, rebel to my duty, 
I would refuse my knee, and my heart's homage 
To any of his house. If I asserted, 
"When strongly urged, my dignity of office, 
Deputed by my king, 'twas to command 
Respect for your great person. 

Gonsalez. 

Gracious sire! 
I cannot deem Coello culpable ; 
Nor yet the Prince, in whom unholy arts 
Have so disorder'd nature, that she wanders 
From her fair self. 

Alphonso. 
What think you then the Prince 
Abused by witchcraft? 



312 

GONSALEZ. 

"What beside has power 
Thus to dash out the characters of wise, 
Of just, of virtuous, and of dutiful? 
What prouder mischief for man's enemy 
Than to confound a nation in it's prince? 
Or means more apt to work the demon's malice 
Than a poor, weak, deceived, aspiring woman ? 
Alphonso. 
Pshaw! — 'tis my grandam's tale! — the sorcery 
Which ruins Pedro is his own corruption : 
It is the rebel striking in his pulse, — 
The demon in his heart. 

GONSALEZ. 

Well, well, my Liege! 
I cannot think that, without aid of hell, 
The power of woman could so far distemper 
The healthy current of the Prince's mind. 

Enter Servant. 
But who is here ? 



313 

Servant. 
The Prince, my Liege ! attends. 
Alphonso. 
Admit him straight ! [Ex. Serv. 

Enter Pedro. 
Pedro. 
Health to my gracious sovereign! 
To my dear father! 

Alphonso. 
Lords! retire awhile; 
We would to ourselves ! [Exeunt Lords.] I wonder, 

Pedro, 
Thy tongue can shape the accents of affection, 
When thy false bosom harbours enmity. 
Fie! 'tis deceit beneath a manly mind. 
But what hast thou with manliness? — a slave! 
A woman's slave! 

Pedro. 
This strong rebuke, my father! 
Strikes to my heart; though all my question'd life 
Disclaim the charge. Unkindness to my father! 



314 

Summon my actions in review before you, 
And where is't to be found? Have I allied 
With guilty factions to subvert the throne, 
To wound my sovereign's dignity and peace? 
Has not my conduct, scorning the suspicion 
Of pride maturing into dangerous action, 
Still taught your subjects to obey and honour? 
Alphonso. 
Ay, so thou say'st. Thou hast not arm'd 'tis true, 
The subject's hand against the sovereign's life: 
Nor yet intrigued, with the mean soul of party, 
To steal his honour, and cajole the people. 
No! this is guilt beyond thy nature's malice; 
Perhaps beyond her sloth and impotence. 
But thou hast sworn against thy father's hopes; 
Wrong'd his just pride; been false to thy great fortunes; 
Cheated the people of their rightful prince, 
Their statesman, and their warrior, and instead 
Hast shamed them with a soft luxurious boy, 
The promise of another feeble Sanchez !? 
a Sancho II. of Portugal. 



315 

Pedro. 
Let not my father deem of me so ill ; 
Nor give my foes their wish! — I know that majesty- 
Is still besieged with the base crew of interest; 
Who watch the latent passion, as it prompts 
The speaking movements of the royal eye, 
And with it's strong corruption work their purpose. 
I know there are, who strive to taint your ear 
With pois'nous misconstruction of my conduct. 
But, my good Liege ! let not their arts prevail 
Against my life's whole story ;— and persuade you, 
Your son can act unworthy of his sire, 
His country or himself. 

Alphonso. 

Why talk of foes? 
Thy foes are in thyself alone. The court 
Loves and laments thee: and what need of eyes, 
Sharpen'd by malice to explore thy faults, 
When even on mine, veil'd with paternal fondness, 
They burst with noontide glare. When the big interests 



31(5 

Of a whole people hang upon our judgment; 

The nation's Genius with the wise and great 

Convened in anxious council; — where art thou? 

No voice is heard for Pedro! — When the troops 

Are marshall' d on the plain, and flame-eyed war, 

As his grim ridges flash an iron gleam, 

Views the proud scene with joy, and sternly waits 

The fall of heroes in the future combat— ~— 

Then — where's the Prince ? — The inquiring eye shall find 

The boy of peace lull'd in a woman's lap, 

Unbrighten'd by a dream of fame or power! 

It is perhaps for some deep crime of mine, 

Thou art ordain'd my scourge. — Yet for what crime? 

If I stood forth the opposer of my father, 

'Twas thirst of power, 'twas energy of mind 

That bore me to the deed, and glory pleaded 

For the high-soul'd offence. — By Heaven! I had rather 

See thee in arms against me, than thus fall'n, 

Honour's apostate ! — rather would I glow 

With anger than with shame ! 



317 

Pedro. 
Cease, Sire, to wrong me ! 

Shew me fair honour, and I'll rush to meet her 

Even where the valiant shrink. Let Tarif l witness ! 

You, Sire, may witness too, that my good sword 

Can hold it's temper in the deed of blood. 

But honour, Sire, is ever found with justice. 

That war, which bleeds as mad ambition prompts, 

My soul detests! — I see it wet with tears 

Of parents, widows, orphans ; — see it fed 

With the scant morsel snatch'd from the starved pea- 
sant ; 
See it deny insulted earth her tillage, 
Her husbandman transform'd into a ruffian ! 
See it suppress the arts, — prohibit commerce 
To join far-sunder'd realms, to mingle climes, 
And blend mankind in one large charity. 

1 The battle of Tarifa, or Celdano, fought on the 30th of Oc- 
tober, 1340, and gained by Alphonso XL of Castile and this 
Alphonso against the Moors, a few years before the death of Inez. 



318 

Oh ! — 'tis a monster ! — the disgrace of reason ! 
Honour disclaims it! — Were my sovereign threaten'd, 
My country gored with an invader's steel, 
Soon should you see me foremost in the field: 
With many hearts exulting in my bosom, 
And proud to force your praise! 
Alphonso. 

And must we then 
Await with folded arms the war that seeks, 
And beards us in our palace ? — Are dominion, 
And the great name, which widely awes mankind, 
The well-appointed legions, and the navy 
Pregnant with floating warfare, things of naught 
Below the nobler mind? — Is not the glow 
Itself of battle, and the pride of conquest 
Transporting to the soul?— But thou hast lost, 
Degenerate boy ! the very taste of glory. 
Heavens ! — as my eye has drunk the crimson slaughter, 
My ear the groans of death and shouts of victory, 
More has my bosom panted with delight, 



319 

Than stung with all the poignancies of sense. 
But Avherefore this to thee? — thy bliss is peace ! 
Then why desert the council-room, where greatness, 
No more an iron figure stain'd with blood, 
Sits in her robes of silk, and weighs the fortunes 
Of persons and of states ; — fills her exchequer 
With the bright means of government and power ; 
Makes tillage, traffic, arts, religion's self 
Her factors to enrich and aggrandize her; 
Pervades the chaos-mass of character, 
And to it's several parts of cold and ardent, 
Active and dull — assigning it's due place, 
Disposes all in order, and thus forms 
A world adjusted to her lofty purpose? 
Pedro. 
Think me not, Sire, without the pulse that quickem 
Beneath the touch of greatness. — War itself, 
By justice own'd, can please me with it's trophies. 
But far more grateful to my soul, I own, 
The triumphs of fair peace :— to spread — to cherish 



320 

The growth of man, and fill the wond'ring desert 
With smiling population: — to support 
Society with morals; — feed with wealth; 
Adorn with arts : — to prompt the nerves of labour 
To hang the mountain with the clust'ring vintage, 
Or float 3 the plain with harvests : — to command 
The flood with the bold arch : — to make the precipice 
Patient of human feet, and speed the intercourse 
Of man with man : — to waft the navy, fraught 
With science and religion, to the savage, 
To teach and bless : — to bid the general force 
Be general good; and thus to prove that all 
Were made for all: — O! — this indeed is greatness 
That lifts us near to Gods!— but the poor pride 
Of vulgar statesmanship, to cog and juggle 

* Etjuvat undantem buxo spectare Cytorum. 

Geor. ii. 437. 
Segetes altae campique natantes 
Lenibus horrescunt flabris. 

Geor. Hi. 198. 



321 

With artifice and mystery for power; 
To seize the unguarded weaknesses of men, 
And make them work our strength ; to play off passion 
'Gainst passion, and by disuniting govern; 
To form the whole into a mine, and ladder 
To raise our pride and glut our avarice — 
Is meanness, guilt, and trick, — resembling wisdom 
As love of bloodshed valour: — 'tis beneath me! 
Alphonso. 

And can'st thou think this lofty rhapsody 
Will pass with me ? It only proves the danger 
Of thy sick state, when, all the soul corrupt, 
The hireling intellect can plead for slotn. 
Pedro. 

No, Sire ! if you require me at your councils, 
My presence shall be there, though your great self 
Render it most unneeded : and I fear 
My simple and right-onward policy 
Will be the theme of scorn to that dark wisdom, 
Which mines and doubles there. 

Y 



K 



322 

Alphonso. 
No more ! — thou speak'st 
Like an unpractised boy! — Attend me now! 
The nobles of our realm, enraged to see thee 
Lost in poor luxury, and basely giving 
Their smiles to strangers, compass us with murmurs 
Which almost shake our throne. Our special wrongs 
Are greater yet than theirs ; and all combine 
To claim the sacrifice of that bad woman, 
Who holds thee in her chains and stains thy honour. 
We are thy suitors now. Should'st thou refuse us, 
We can enforce our purpose. 

Pedro. 

O my father! 
Be not abused by the false voice of fame: 
Nor let the nobles' causeless jealousy 
Prompt your injustice. — Of my crime, in aiding 
Castile's sad fugitives, the whole account 
Is common courtesy and scant relief. 
For her, whose virtues wake degenerate hate, 



323 

She never urged a deed allied to guilt; 
Her thought and conduct, charity and goodness. 
Oh '.—she is faultless as, before the fall, 
Was our first parent: — Heaven's own light her soul, 
Unmingled with the vapours of this world. 
Alphonso. 
She hath undone thee, Pedro ! and must fall. 
What! say'st thou — to protect these vile Castilians, 
Who mock by flight their prince's baffled justice, 
Is but an act of common aid to woe? 
Doth it not loose the ties which bind together 
The brother-lords of earth, and make each monarch 
The patron of his neighbour-monarch's rebels? 
'Tis most unwise! — Even now beneath thy roof 
Secure, and affluent in thy state, a criminal 
Deceives the laws. — Thy female counsellor 
Must be removed. 

Pedro. 
My gracious Liege! she never 
Govem'd my partial hand. — Remove her, Sire 

y2 



324 

Nature will not obey. — Oh ! pardon me, 
If here I claim the peasant's privilege, 
To chuse the partner of my love. 

Alphonso. 

The peasant 
May chuse his own she-beggar as he will. 
The thing of dirt may welter in the senses : 
Tis his poor recompence, and injures no one. 
Not so the prince: he lives not for himself: 
His frame and spirit, sense and intellect 
Are glory's only, and as glory wills 
Their functions must obey. Thy fair, thou say'st, 
Never supplied an argument to wrong: 
When late thy passion's outrages pursued 
My minister, Coello, whom my name 
Might sanction from thy wrongs, who then impell'd 
To the rash deed? 

Pedro. 
Coello, my good Lord! — — 

Alphonso. 
I'll hear no more! Dismiss this female mischief! 



325 

This Helen, fatal to the peace of kingdoms. 

Let her begone ! I speak to save thee, Pedro ! 

Let her this instant quit the realm for ever! 

Or thou shalt prove my force! — Away with her! 

Lest my prone vengeance in it's fierce descent 

Should blend thy fate with hers. [Ex. Alph. 

Pedro. 

Let it!— I'm fix'd 
To stand the crush ! Obedience to a father! 
It has a claim of force : but nature, reason, 
Religion, guardian of the plighted faith, 
Join to repel and mock it. — No, my Inez! 
Never can I leave thee! — should it be Heaven's will, 
For thee — adieu to fortune, friends, and power! 
They're but the dress and ornament of life, 
Thou art the life itself! — But whence is this? 
What hands have wrought this master-piece of ruin? 
Coello? — that is true. Gonsalez also, 
With his cold maxims of left-handed wisdom, 
May ill-affect my love. Alvaro too, 
Y 3 



326 

With a friend's face, they say, hides a foe's heart. 
Mischief I know he loves, and — Leonora. 
Ha ! let me think ! — yes it is so — that woman 
"With her soul's torrent, swell'd by jealousy, 
Hath set to work this engine of destruction. 
Yet how ? — would she address the king against 
His son, talk of her wrongs, or of the state's? 
To hear an angry woman on such themes 
Alphonso would but smile : — and yet this house, 
In which the king confers, — ay, and the letter, 
Hinting the fall of Inez, — given me now 
As I arrived in Coimbra, strongly prove 
This woman to be leagued with plotting villains 
Against my honour, love, and happiness. 
Confusion ! it is she ! — I'll hence, and shun her ! 

(going) 
Enter Leonora. 
Leonora. 
O Pedro! stay! — fly me not thus unkindly! 
Nor kill the 'oy your presence has inform'd 
With newly kindled life. 



327 

Pedro. 

I hoped the pride 
Of your soft sex, whose triumph is in flight, 
"Would save me, Madam, from this vain pursuit, 
Injurious to your honour, and my peace. 
Leonora. 
" Save you!" Sir! — hear ye this, ye righteous Hea- 
vens ? 
" Injurious to your honour, and my peace!" 
Then was the time to talk of peace and honour, 
When Pedro sought my love. — If now I violate 
My sex's privilege, and fix a blush 
On maiden modesty, his be the crime 
Whose perfidy compels me. O my Pedro ! 
Wrong me no more: return to your kind self:— 
Think of our loves ! — let them assert your favour, 
And plead with angel-tongues against the guilt 
Of basely leaving me. I thought to find 
My welcome in your smiles ; — not thus be chill'd 
By the dark low' ring of a wintry brow. 
y 4 



328 

Pedro. 
Talk not of perfidy ! — Our loves concurr'd not ■ 
On contract's hallow'd ground. No hope excited, 
No faith deceived, no honour violated 
Can urge me with it's wrongs. If I offended 
The sanctity of virtue, the offence 
Is not without it's record in my hearty 
Or witness on my cheek. Recall my love ! 
The attempt is idle : — to recall the breeze, 
Which, sighing on the flower, expired, — as easy. 
In honour's name, desist! and let not passion 
Lead you more wide of goodness. 
Leonora. 

What is this? 
Heavens! that your shame and conscience should be 

strong 
Only to injure me ! without remorse 
You bear this blushing virtue to the arms 
Of your Castilian harlot. 



329 

Pedro. 
Dare not speak it! 
Tis to blaspheme the holiness of virtue 
Enshrined in beauty: 'tis to censure her 
Who never censures; never moved her lips 
To pain or injure. 

Leonora. 
She was never wrong'd. 
Oh ! for some power of chosen execration 
To strike and search her to the heart ! She good ? 
She fair? she mild? — Consumptions waste her! 
The south-wind diy her blood ! or the rank breath 
Of sun-drawn fens corrupt, and melt it down 
Into one putrid source of blains and sores ; 
To make her hateful in your eyes as now 
She is abhorr'd in mine ! — Nay, thou shalt hear me! 
What have I yet to fear? — my wrongs are full. 
Hath his breast heaved a sigh? — his eyes relented 
Into one pitying drop, or even vouchsafed 
A glance of kindness ? — my poor brain is giddy ! 
Yet will I have revenge! — no matter what! 



330 

It shall be copious vengeance to allay 

The heat of my sick heart: — my eyes shall drink it 

Even to satiety ! — Yes ! thou shalt pay me 

With pang for pang; — and when thou groan'st, and 

weep'st, 
And tear'st thy hair, — then will I laugh and mock 
Thy agonies, as thou doest mine. Away! [Ex 

Pedro. 
She hath amazed me. Yet perhaps her state 
Hath privilege to rail, and I must bear it. 
Out of our vices righteous Heaven contrives 
To shape our punishment. — O let not this, 
Nor any failings of my erring youth 
Be register'd against me. Pardon Heaven! 
Or if thou must correct, to me alone 
Restrain the infliction! — Visit not my faults 
On the pure object of my love! O keep her 
In thine especial care, and I will bless thee 
Even as I sink beneath thine aweful justice! Ex. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



331 



ACT IV. 

Alma da. 

Ah! what is man? — a bubble raised in play, 
Which swells awhile; — sports it's quick varying tints, 
A borrower from the sun ; then bursting melts 
Into it's parent elements, nor leaves 
A trace behind. — Man is creation's wonder ! 
With faculties that walk the range of Heaven; 
With appetites that gorge upon the earth, 
An angel-brute ! extended in desire 
With space and time, yet bounded in fruition 
By a mere point and moment. — Bliss his aim, 
But his attainment anguish, — he creeps on 
From day to day in care of sordid being; 
While hour to hour repeats the same dull tale, 
Till wearied nature sleeps : — or, meteor-like, 
He glares and flashes with illusive splendour, 



332 

Till his thin flame is spent. Our mom of life 
Is wet with sorrow's dew ; — our noon involved 
In passion's storm;— our evening pale and chill, 
And fading into night: and when this sun 
Is quench'd in darkness, — shall no day-star rise 
To warm and waken us? — there shall— and then 
The joys and cares which shook this fev'rish life, 
Shall be no more remember' d than a dream. 
Yes — 'tis the beam of this new day alone 
Which throws a golden glimmer o'er our vale, 
And fills our nerves with spirits for our travel. 
But soft! —she comes, and with her kindred loveliness 
Restores that image, which revolving suns 
Had almost melted from my heart's close grasp. 
If the Queen leave her, I'll resolve the doubts 
Which float on my toss'd mind.— Should she be mine! 
But why indulge the hope ? [Exit. 

Enter Queen and Inez. 
Queen. 
He would avoid us : 



333 

Let us respect his sorrow's privilege. 

You promised cheerfulness when late we parted — 

Why then this gloom which still o'ercasts your spirits ? 

Fie! 'tis unkind. 

Inez. 
O chide me not, dear Madam! 
The tumult of this anxious morn has tired me, 
And my weak heart is faint. Scarce had you left me, 
When, charged with business from the King to Pedro, 
Coello came. 

Queen. 
The business I conclude 
To bid the Prince to court. Did he obey? 
Inez. 
He did, and instantly set off to meet 
The King at Coimbra. 

Queen. 

Coimbra, did you say? 
That's somewhat strange. 



334 

Inez. 

It is — and is the prologue 
To a sad tale I fear, — not less the subject 
Of grief in time to come, than now of wonder. 
Ah me ! my hapless fate ! to gain from bliss 
A sense more exquisite to feel affliction, 
And not elude a pang! — Why did good Heaven 
Permit your kindness and my Pedro's love 
To take me thence where my disastrous fortunes 
Were all my own ? — Oh ! 'tis supremely wretched 
To be a fatal bride,' — to bring in dower 
No blessing — but a curse. 

Queen. 
My dearest daughter ! 
Wrong not yourself or Heaven : — more smiling hours 
Are on the wing to meet you. — Pedro's suit 
Will move his father, and, to aid his pleading, 
My knee shall kiss the ground. All is prepared, 
And I will hence even now. 



335 

Inez. 

Your goodness beggars 
All my poor powers of recompence. — O Madam ! 
You see me now whelm'd in the deep confusion 
Of a dishonour'd name. — Coello's malice, 
Surprising me alone, so rudely press'd me 
With slanderous suggestion, that my blood 
Recoil'd almost to death.— Much was I moved 
To dash the calumny by proudly claiming 
The rank of Pedro's wife. — 

Queen. 
I hope thou didst not! 
Inez. 
No, Madam, your behest subdued the woman 
Rebelling in my breast, and chain'd the tell-tale. 
Queen. 
'Tis well— it had been fatal else. 
Inez. 

Ah! wherefore? 
I own, indeed, and feel myself unworthy, 



336 

how unworthy! of my Pedro's virtues. 
But to Asturia's royal line my Sire 

Traced his high ancestry; and, were he living, 
Would not regard his daughter raised when sitting 
Even on the throne of Portugal. 
Queen. 

My child! 

1 know too well your honourable lineage 

To deem your hand beneath a prince's fortune. 
And your own worth, O pardon me the blush, 
That pains your tender cheek!— deserves a throne. 
But the King thinks not thus. His eyes are fix'd 
On power alone. The alliance that would please him, 
Must sue with crowns and armies in her hand. 
Besides your course, like your own Guadiana/ 
Was lost awhile, and, ere again it mounted, 
Flow'd through a tract of darkness. — On this period 

a A river of Spain, which is absorbed and runs for a certain 
space under ground. 



337 

Of your dimn'd lustre would he rest his search, 
Convinced the Prince's love alone had raised you, 
While it had humhled him. Oh then be secret! 
If you respect your own, — your husband's safety, 
Forego the name of wife!— Honour and virtue 
Have danger in them. — Pedro's wanton licence, 
Would he indulge the ambition of his father, 
Might range all Portugal, and meet no censure. 
Not so his marriage: — 'twould incense the tyrant; 
And you, the Prince, and I perhaps might fall 
In one dread ruin. — Keep the fatal secret, 
Howe'er enforced ; there's death in the disclosure. 
Inez. 
Not all the pains of honour on the rack 
Shall make again my steady purpose falter. 
Yours and my Pedro's safety can obtain 
My smile even for disgrace ! 

Queen. 
Your suffering 
Cannot be long. — Soon shall you claim your husband, 
z 



338 

With no Alphonso to repel your title ; 
And the changed world, as large in recompence 
As now in wrongs, will pay the arrear of honour. ' 
Farewell! I go to meet my haughty lord, 
And sue for Pedro's mistress ! 
Inez. 
My heart's blessing 
Attends you ! 

Queen. 
Soon your husband will return, 
No doubt with cheerful news. — Your happiness 
With such a friend — the generous and the tender, 
Whose every thought is yours— might move my envy, 
And tempt me to repine, — when I regard 
My different lot with the severe, — the sullen, 
The fierce Alphonso, to whose guarded bosom 
No access is allow'd ; — with whom I share 
Nothing in common — but a gloomy bed. 

[Ex. Queen. 



339 

Inez. 

It is that stern — inexorable man — 
Whom even as death I fear!— O haste thee, Pedro, 
To raise my sinking heart! — thou art as kind 
As he — thy sire is harsh ; — and if my sentence 
Must be pronounced, — though even then 'twill crush 

me, 
From thy soft lips 'twill fall with lighter ruin ! 
Longing, — yet trembling I await thy tidings. 
This dread suspence, — this fateful interval 
Shakes me most deeply, and my lawless thought 
Is on the range for horror. But Almada, 
Returning, walks this way; — and at his presence 
My fancy finds another course, in which 
To pour it's troubled stream. 

Enter Almada. 

Almada. 
It grieves me, Madam! 
To see the felon grief approach life's prime, 
As now in you, and rifle it of smiles. 
z 2 



340 

Haply 'tis too assuming in a stranger 
To ask what moves you in this pride of life, 
Girt with the means of envied happiness, 
To yield a thought to pain? Dear lady! pardon 
An old man's fondness :— ■ if he lives to bless you, 
Think that in me you hear your honour'd father. 
Inez. 
Father !— O Heavens ! 
Almada. 
Mine, Lady ! are his years, 
Though not his blessing. — Grief, I know, can reach 
And shake the loftiest state : — perhaps the pain 
Of some fresh-sever'd heart-string prompts the sigh, 
And my officious love provokes the wound 
To livelier pangs : — yet bear me while I ask, 
Live both your happy parents ? 
Inez. 

Sir ! they sleep 
Each in the cold, dumb grave, nor heed the sorrows 
Which fade their orphan's cheek. 



341 

Almada. 
The loss of parents 
Is great, but common; — felt awhile by nature 
And then no more remember'd. Here perhaps, 
The woe is recent. 

Inez. 
No ! — one parent saw me 
Just ripening into woman; and the other 
Forsook my childhood :—Oh! the kindest father, 
That ever strain'd an infant to his bosom! 
Almada. 
Time must have dried the source of filial tears, 
However full. O still vouchsafe me favour! 
Is it a brother's loss that touches you, 
And melts you thus in grief? 
Inez. 
No brother, Sir ! 
Has ever claim'd my love, or to my arms 
Given a divided parent. I was all 
z3 



342 

The blessing of my mother's bed, and now 
Alas ! am all my race. 

Almada. 

It must be she ! 
Down, down my heart ! (aside) — Thrice blessed were 

your parents, 
Thrice blessed Portugal ! — the favoured land 
Which boasts your honour'd birth ! 
Inez. 

My birth can make 
No country proud: — but here in Portugal 
I am, as thou, an alien. To Castile 
I owe my birth. On Guadiana's banks, 
Near Calatrava, where my family 
Long vied with those on thrones, my childhood play'd, 

Till 

Almada. 
The fierce Moor o'erspread the wasted region, 
Hurried your mother and yourself to chains, 
And slew your father. 



343 

Inez. 
You amaze me, Sir! 
Whence could you learn my melancholy story? 
Almada. 
I was not distant from that scene of ravage. 
I had a daughter too, whom then I lost. 
Inez. 
A daughter, Sir! 
Almada. 
O yes! a daughter, lovelier 
Than the first morning that awaked in Eden, 
And sweeter than it's breath. — The accursed infidels 
Surprised my castle, as my charming girl 
Had number'd her tenth year. — Had fate permitted, 
Even as I see you now, so fair and peerless, 
Would she have bless'd my eyes : — but — ah ! — for ever 
Lost I my much-loved — Inez! 
Inez. 

Am I waking? 
Or is it all illusion? — but the grave 
z 4 



344 

Cannot give back it's dead!— I saw my father— 
O sight of agony !— oppress' d by numbers 
Sink,— a pale corse!— beheld the murderer's swords 
Steep'd in his life ! 

Almada. 
Ay, so indeed thou thoughtest. 
Fernandez fell, 'tis true, with many a wound; 
And lay, with heaps of reeking death, unnoticed, 
Till the retreating foe, with the next sun, 
Resign'd him to his friends. Their care recall'd 
The wand' ring pulse of life :— when, to behold 
The loss of all that render'd life a blessing, 
From sweet forgetfulness to sense — I woke! 
Inez. 
O Heaven support me! — O my long-mourn'd father! 
And is it thou I clasp ? — scarce can I think it; 
Though every sense avouch it. — Yes, 'tis he! 
This is no mockery!— Upon my knees 
Let me implore thy blessing ! Tell me wherefore 
Conceal Fernandez in Almada? Tell me 



345 

Where hast thou sqjourn'd? They reported falsely 

Thy castle was destroy'd! 

Fernandez. 

Another moment, 

my loved daughter! when my heart's less, busy, 
Shall give thee all. My castle was destroy'd, 
The hateful spot, which told me of my loss, 

1 shunn'd, and sought to hide me from my woes 
In a lone seat, I own'd near distant Ebro. 
There had I still remain'd: — but Pedro's tyranny, 
Bless'd be Heaven's will! invaded my retreat; 
Seized on my lands; and drove me from Castile, 
Stripp'd of a name too splendid for my flight, 

A vagabond and beggar, to find here 

More treasure than I left. O my sweet child ! 

But speak, thy mother! — said'st thou that she died? 

Lorenza gone ! to clasp her here with thee 

Were too much ecstacy ! yet in her Inez 

She still survives ! as thou art now, my girl ! 

Was my Lorenza when she crown'd my arms, 



346 

A blushing bride. Come grow unto my bosom, 
Mother and daughter both ! But now relate, 
If the wild hurry of thy soul permit, 
Where hast thou linger'd for these ten long years? 
How nourish'd being since by fate denied 
The shelter of these arms? How baffled too 
My anxious love, which still, with jmncely offers 
For ransom or discovery, search'd the realms 
Of our unchristian foes ? 

Inez. 
O Sir! O father! 
My thought is giddy; and tumultuous pleasure 
Stifles my utterance ! — my story's brief. 
The foe, that snatch'd us from you, used as kindly; 
And bore us to Casalla : — there not long 
We had resided, when the fierce Alphonso, 
Prevailing in the battle, storm'd the city ; 
And led my mother and myself to Lisbon. 
There, on a pittance of the royal bounty, 
We lived in humble solitude, till Heaven 



347 

Was pleased to sever from my love and wants 
My guide and friend, and, as I sadly deem'd, 

My only parent. Then 

Fernandez. 
Ha! — then — what then? 
Hold — let me — ha! the horrid thought alarms me, 
And makes my heart impatient of it's place! 
Say and be quick ! — whence this magnificence 
I see around thee ? — this imperial mansion ? 
These grounds — with all that's rich and rare in nature ? 
Say! — speak! — I'll be resolved! — are they the bribes 
Of prostitution ? — splendid guilt alone ? 
Illustrious infamy? — Unhappy woman! 
Thou art not Pedro's wife! 

Inez. 
What shall I say ? 
O father ! 

Fernandez. 
Hence ! lest I should spurn thee from me ! 
Stain not the name of father ! — this sad morningi 



348 

When the false man pronounced thy name with passion, 
I knew not why it moved me: — but 'twas nature, 
Prescient of this most dread reserve of fate, 
That felt the coming shock. — O vile seducer! 
—But I can yet avenge. 

Inez. 
My dear, dear father! 
Forbear — to wrong the Prince! — I'm all distraction.— 
(aside) 

Fernandez. 
And art thou then so lost to virtuous feeling, 
As even to plead for vice! — Hence ruin'd woman! 
Hence, daring slander of thy mother's bed! 
— Oh ! — she was chaste, sinless in thought, — as white 
As the pure snows which crown the Pyrenean, 
Unsullied by the grosser breath of earth ! 
But thou— oh thou!— I've felt affliction's shafts 
Even in my heart : — it has seem'd good to Heaven 
To strike me in it's wrath ; — yet till this moment 
My nature has stood firm. Woe is man's birthright : 



349 

But shame ! — disgrace ! — to see a lengthen'd line 

Of heroes and chaste matrons ending thus 

In the poor object of licentious passion — 

Would I had found thee dead! — that had been sorrow: 

This is confusion ! 

Inez. 
Madness! — his high spirit 
Will never brook concealment, (aside) — Here I'll kneel 
For ever on this cushion of the flint, 
Till thou dost take me up, and give me back 
My twice lost parent ! — think me not deform'd 
As now thine eyes would shape me! — Pedro's guiltless. 
Fernandez. 
That cannot be, even if he took thee sullied 
From Lisbon's streets, a commoner of love. 
But, O my child! nature will force her rights; 
I am not adamant! and I must weep 
O'er the most beauteous ruin, virtue ever 
Survey 'd with sad regard. O my lost girl! 
Ha! — let me look — this face is all thy mother's: 



350 

No vice can here be read : each character 

Is strong in virtue: when within is guilt, 

Oh! why should innocence be hung without, 

To flatter, and betray, and cozen justice? 

Yet art thou mine, and though thou'st brought with 

shame 
Thy poor old father to the grave — I'll hold thee 
To my flaw'd heart. Oh ! Inez ! 

(Embracing her. J 
Enter Pedro. 
Pedro. 

Gods! amazement! 

It cannot! — yet — no 

Fernandez. 
Ha ! thou stain of honour ! 
Thou canker that didst taint the sweetest flower, 
Which ever open'd to the eye of spring ! 
Hence ! I defy thee! 'tis a cause to steel 
The arm of infancy ; and I will risk in it 
The few warm drops which linger at my heart 
Draw and defend thyself! — 



351 

INEZ. 

O cease! 'tis phrensy! 

father! O my husband! he who moves 
Must tread upon a daughter — or a wife! 

Pedro. 
Heavens ! can it be? — a daughter? 
Fernandez. 

What ! — your husband ? 

Pedro. 
Yes, Sir, her husband! — 'tis my name of glory! 

1 would not change it for the name of king ! 
Though my fate's enmity compel me now 
To whisper what I wish to speak in thunder 
To the world's ear. I've been too hasty, Sir ! 
Your years, your mien of honour, and my Inez, 
Were strong against suspicion. But my fortune, 
Peevish and strange, hath tome me from myself, 
That Pedro is not Pedro. That you are 

My fair one's father — 'tis enough— she says it. 
The strangeness of the fact may be hereafter 



352 

The subject of account. — Your pardon, Sir ! 
Let me not suffer in your honest thought: 
The world's too poor to bribe me from my honour. 
I am your son. This lady chose me, Sir ! 
When, as she thought, no parent lived to guide, 
And bless her youthful judgment. O forgive her ! 
And take me for your son ! Let me embrace you ! 
Fernandez. 
Great Sir! your nobleness surprises me ; 
Though all the busy tongues of fame proclaim it. 
'Tis I must sue for pardon : age and sorrow 
Have broken in me nature's harmony, 
And jarr'd her trembling strings. Mysterious Power! 
Even where I thought myself most deeply ruin'd 
To be most bless'd! Would it were Heaven's will 
To take me now, my bliss were rare indeed ! 
My wearied age would close it's toils in rapture, 
And smile at what the impotence of fortune 
In cruelty might plan. Receive her, Prince! 
She will not shame your greatness. The full period 



353 

Of a rich strain of virtue closes in her. 
Pardon me, noble Sir! and thou, my child ! 
Forgive thy erring father. 

Inez. 

Dearest Sire! 
Your happy child can think alone of fondness : 
Of gratitude to him, who nursed her childhood ; 
And train'd the being, that he gave, to virtue. 
I own'd the justness of your passion, saw 
Your deep distress ; but could not then relieve it. 
The dreadful issue, which your rashness tempted, 
Alone could make me speak. What closed my lips, 
And what you wish to know 'till Pedro's love 
Removed me here; and, for my worthless hand, 
Gave me himself, a jewel of a price 
That beggars India, you shall hear at leisure, 
When from the tumult of conflicting passions 
My bosom is composed. 

Fernandez. 
It is enough, 
Aa 



354 

That thou art found, and as thou should'st be found, 
The pure descendent of a line of princes. 
Some idler time will suit to learn the rest: 
And your great consort's honour is so clear, 
To question it were crime. 

Pedro. 
Rest easy, Sir! 
What is mysterious shall be solved, what doubtful 
Confirm'd to certain.— Here your pious daughter 
Shall tend your age, and to your soothed decline 
Requite the cares her infancy received. 
Fernandez. 
You bless me, Sir! Thou Heaven with choice regard 
Look on this pair! extend and guard their virtues! 
Grant them that rare felicity of union, 
Where still one wish springs from two hearts ; where 

thought 
Softly dissents from thought to make the piece 
Not dissonant, but various ! Bless their bed 
With lovely increase, to diffuse their joy; 



335 

And bear the blended parent to adorn 
And gladden the new age! If they must suffer 
Their portion of the sentence pass'd on man, 
mitigate the affliction! be it only 
A bird of solemn warning, not of prey; 
To counsel thought, and not to tear the heart. 
Let them pass calmly on — if not exultingby, 
Till hand in hand — they drop into the sleep 
Which closes mortal care! But age and joy 
Make even my prayer to babble. I'll withdraw 
To yield the respite my own weakness claims ; 
And think awhile upon these strange events, 
Which make my poor brain totter. [_Ex. Almada. 
Pedro. 

He's much moved 1 
Inez. 
had you seen the good old man, my Pedro! 
His darling child, as by a miracle, 
Restored to his dear arms,— yet her condition 
Aa2 



356 

Such as to waken doubt, and point to shame, 
You would have pitied him ! — perhaps have pitied 
Your Inez too, condemn' d to have the power, 
Without the right to ease her father's anguish. 
Alas ! you know not, what my faith has borne 
Ere it surrendered:— 'twas the fright alone, 
Caused by your mutual error, which subdued it. 
Silence at last seem'd guilt. If I have err'd, 
Forgive me, Pedro! 

Pedro. 

All is well, my Inez ! 
For thee, with even the semblance of pollution, 
To stain thy Sire with shame and wound with anguish, 
Were the worst ill. Besides, the crisis hastens 
Of more decided fate. Our fortunes now 
Hang trembling on a point. 

Inez. 

What says the King? 
Exile or chains? O speak the dreadful sentence t 
What shape must ruin take? 



357 

Pedro. 

The King, indeed, 
Is harsh. 

Inez. 

Ah me! 
Pedro. 

And some accursed foe 
Hath urged him almost to renounce the father, 
And be the tyrant only. 

Inez. 

We're undone! 
I see it, Pedro! — 'tis in vain to hide it. 
Pedro. 
No, Inez ! not undone : if he abandon 
His own respected self, 'tis he who breaks 
The ties of son and father. To my country 
I'll plead my cause. My countiy will respect 
My wedded love, and Portugal to guard her 
Will glitter in bright arms. My friends are strong, 
Many and firmly mine : this knows the monarch, 
Aa3 



358 

And prudence will repress the attempts of passion. 
Talk not of danger, Inez ! 

Inez. 
Think' st thou, Pedro! 
That I could see thee lift against thy father, 
Howe'er unjust and violent, thy hand? 
Think'st thou that I could witness, this fair country, 
Which cherish'd my weak years, and gave me Pedro, 
Drinking with thirsty lips her children's blood, 
And — for a worthless woman? — No, my Pedro! 
Rather than be a fiend that breathes destruction, 
I'll fly — O Heaven! — from thee, — O that I could 
Fly also from myself! — to some far spot 
Beyond the foot of man : there fade unnoticed; 
Till nought is left of Inez but a sigh, 
And the faint murmur of her Pedro's name. 

Pedro. 
Bright excellence ! — O cease ! — and if you love me, 
No more of this. It gives a stronger blow 
Than all Alphonso's prowess can inflict. 



359 

Part from thee? No, my Inez! our twin fates 
Are grown incorporate and single-natured, — 
Fed by one heart and quicken'd with one spirit. 
or us were death! But who is here? 
Enter Servant. 
Servant. 
My gracious Lord! a messenger from Coimbra, 
Brought this in haste. 

Pedro. 
Tis well! — [Ex. Serv.] what can it mean? 
A letter from my father! 

Inez. 
Ah! I tremble! 
Each character is fate:— and yet I see 
A -miling omen on my Pedro's cheek, 
That plucks me from despair. 
Pedro. 
O my loved Inez ! 
Mphonso's yet my father! 

a a 4 



360 

(Pedro reads.) 
Passion urged 
My speech to warmth. The exile of thy fair 
Shall not he thought of. Come to me to-morrow, 
And means will he devised— to set thy love 
No more at strife with honour ; — to conciliate 
The disaffected nobles, — and approve myself 
Tliy loving— father. 

Hear you this, my Inez ! 
Inez. 
This is, indeed, most kind ; and yet it seems 
The change is too — too sudden: in an hour! 
In a short hour ! before his pulse had ebb'd ! 
Ere scarce the tremor on his tongue had ceased, 
To write in such a strain ! 

Pedro. 
My father's nature 
Was only for a moment bent from goodness; 
And now, the transient violence removed, 
Acts with it's proper virtue. 



361 

Inez. 

I'll not doubt it; 
But give a loose to joy: — and, when you visit 
Coimbra to-morrow, will not feel those pangs 
Your absence caused this morning. 
Pedro. 

Inez ! — no! 
Let's think no more of sorrow, and alarm. 
Those ugly shapes of night are faded now ; 
And joy comes dancing on. My bosom triumphs 
With more than wonted spirit, and I feel 
The buoyancy of flame. Hence will I now, 
And mingle with my comrades of the chace, 
Who have for hours accused my tardy faith. 
Will you attend our sport ? — the harmonious quire 
Of the match'd quire; the animated field; 
The vocal woods and hills, where echo hunts, 
Will clear your veins of any ling' ring damp. 
Inez. 
Excuse me, Pedro ! — my o'erlabour'd spirits 



362 

Demand repose ; and in this game of blood 
Never could I taste delight. What you call harmony- 
Has struck my ear, and startled my weak heart 
As the deep cry of death, almost as savage 
As the mad uproar by the frighted Hebrus, 
When fell the Muse's son. But I talk idly. 
That for which Providence has planted instincts, 
And which my Pedro likes — cannot be wrong. 
Pedro. 
Proceed, my love! to hear you censure it, 
I would forego my sport. Be cheerful, dear! 
The field shall not detain me long, and — then, 
We'll talk with smiles of this eventful day. 

[Ex. Pedro. 
Inez. 
A numb cold pressure, like the hand of death, 
Lies on my bosom. Shall I call him back ? 
Pedro!— my Pedro! — gone too far to hear me! 
And were he not, he'd only mock my terror, 
As the poor stuff of female superstition: 



363 

And so indeed it is: I'll throw it off! 

And, till the hour of meeting at repast, 

Feed on the bliss that waits me, the sweet converse 

Of my dear father, and my dearer lord. [Ex. 

END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 



ACT V. 

Alphonso, Gonsalez, Alvaro, and Coello. 

Alphonso. 
Thus far 'tis well. The shallow boy hath gorged 
My specious bait, the letter that I sent him, 
Couch'd in ambiguous peace. My spies report him s 
Gone to partake the pleasure of the chace 
Till the day close. Ours is the interval ; 
And we must crowd it's narrow bounds with fate,. 
That after-times reproach us not with sloth. 
The place is striking. Blushing nature here, 
Wantons in all her charms, dress'd and trick'd out 
By her gay handmaid art voluptuously, 
To enervate and debauch. Say! will the man, 
Wont to breathe coolness in these fragrant shades. 
From which the sun in his full pride retires, 



365 

Be patient of the noontide march ?— or he, 
Who on the velvet margin of these streams 
Catches sweet slumbers from their murm'ring lapse, 
Bear the hard soldier's couch upon the heath, 
Rock'd by the howling storm ? The place itself 
Invites corrupt indulgence: and no wonder 
That Pedro should abandon Portugal; 
For to this blooming circuit — 'tis a desert. 
This is a paradise; and here's the serpent 
Whom we must bruise ! 

Coello. 
Ay, my great sovereign Lord ! 
Say shall I rush, and drag her from her chamber, 
To hear her fearful sentence ? 

Gonsalez. 

No, Coello! 
Might I advise, my Liege would leave to us 
The stern infliction of his righteous doom, 
Nor see the dang'rous woman. We are agents, 
Mere instruments alone; — with hearts and hands 



366 

Not ours — but his who orders, — and by duty 
Steel'd as our blades. Should he, who has a right 
To pity, see her, the mysterious power, 
Which has subdued the Prince's royal nature, 
May work with more effect, — confounding justice. 
Alvaro. 
Think'st thou, Gonsalez, that the Sovereign's purpose 
Is not too settled to be blown away 
By the weak impulse of a woman's sigh ? 
Surely thou know'st not yet our Monarch's firmness. 
'Tis like a rock, besieged in vain by oceans : 
'Tis like the polar ice, built high to heaven, 
On which the sun with ineffectual flame 
Plays for a six-month's day. 

Gonsalez. 
I know him proof 
Against all human power ; but here — 

Alphonso. 

We'll try it! 
Alvaro ! and Coello ! — hence, and hurry 



367 

This woman to our presence ! — All the gates 
Are by our guards commanded. — Now, Gonsalez, 

\_Ex. Alv. and Coel. 
You vnay perhaps be forced to deem us firm. 
What ! — man ! — to satisfy the claim of honour, 
This hand would lop it's brother, and not tremble ! 
And canst thou think that a few drops of rheum, 
The sickly fretting of a harlot's eye, 
Can melt my solid purpose? — No— Gonsalez! 
Thou ought'st to know me better. — When she weeps, 
— As she will weep, — I will have eyes of stone, 
No fleshly softness near them. — Like the Caspian, 
My spirit shall imbibe the copious floods, 
And not o'erflow, or render back a drop. 

Gonsalez. 
Your pardon, noble Sovereign ! — but I fear 
The more than beauty's power, which aids this woman, 
Will 

Alphonso. 
Peace!— 'tis dotage!— Hark!— 



Alvaro and Coello. 
(Behind the scenes J — Nay, come along ! 
You stand upon your honour ! — you are nice ! 
(Inez, behind the scenes.) 
Ah me! why drag me thus, ungentle men? 
I do not struggle ! — my poor trembling knees 
Will bear me forward ! — oh ! 

Enter Inez — (dragged by Alvaro and Coello, her 

hands bound, and her hair dishevelled.) 

Inez. 

Alas! where am I? 
Which is your Lord? that I may raise to him 
My eyes for pardon; — though I know no crime! 
Alphonso. 
By Heavens ! a miracle ! the rarest beauty 
Which yet hath caught my glance! — nature's prime 

work! 
Finish'd not well — but curiously ! — struck out 
In a chance brilliant moment, and then labour'd 



369 

To bright perfection. Here I see, Gonsalez ! 
The witchcraft that you dread. 

Inez (to Alphonso). 

O sovereign Lord ! 
(For your imperial aspect speaks the king,) 
See at your feet a weak and aidless woman 
Imploring mercy ! 

Alphonso. 

Ha! Gonsalez! witchcraft 
It is indeed: but it is nature's witchcraft: 
All lawful influence, which might well controll 
Souls firmer than the Prince's : mine perceives it, 
But will not yield. 

Inez. 
Distress like mine, O Monarch ! 
Solicits pity, or at least regard. 

Ah! whence these cruel bands which strain my wrists, 
Unused to such ru 
Declare my crime. 



370 

Alphonso. 
Thou speak'st like innocence ! 
Apply to thy own heart:— there wilt thou find 
The guilt that I must punish. 
Inez. 
Oh ! my Lord ! 
That look alone was death ! — and yet for guilt 
I search my heart in vain ; — there find I nothing 
But love, alas! and — fear! 

Alphonso. 
The crime, and terror 
Of the crime's punishment. 

Inez. 
Is love a crime? 
Alphonso. 
Ay!- 

Inez. 
Then are the angels deeply criminal. 
Love is their service, — love their crown of bliss 
Dispensed by their great Father, who is love! 



371 

Alphonso. 
Not love like thine. 
Inez. 
My love, great King! is pure. 
'Tis love of human kind: love even of foes! 
'Tis love of country, friends, relations, — love 
Of God, — and, ah ! too near to God — of Pedro ! 
Alphonso. 
Ha!— hast thou found the crime which bares on thee 
The arm of justice? — 'tis thy love of Pedro. 
Inez. 
Was it my fault to yield at Pedro's suit 
My virgin heart? — alas! 'twas forced from me! 
Heaven should have made him, Sire ! less good and lovely. 
Alphonso. 
Thy love has ruin'd him. 
Inez. 
If ruin'd him, — 
I were a wretch indeed ! — more lost than now 
Sinking beneath your frowns. O my good Sovereign ! 
Bb2 



372 

If to observe, and honour, and admire him ; 
To feel his pulse of pleasure and of pain 
Still beating in my breast ; to nurse his virtues, 
And aid the beauteous purpose of his soul, 
Be, Sire ! to ruin him, my love is guilty 
And I must stand the sentence. 
Alphonso. 

Artful woman ! 
Thy love has held it's object from the field; 
Has urged him to refuse his asking country 
The means of strength in great alliances ; 
Has kept him from the state, and from his father; 
Has stolen him from himself, and melted him 
Into a woman's toy. 

GoNSALEZ. 

Yes ! foully done it, 
By most ungodly practice. 

Inez (to Gonsalez). 
O my Lord ! 
Press not the falling! Age, deep versed in life 



373 

And life's sad changeful stoiy, should be ready 
To grant the pity which it soon may want; 
Prone to afford the supplicant it's knees, 
To assuage and not incense. O sue for me! 
To thee he will attend ; my feeble accents 
Cannot impress his ear, or I would tell him 
The Prince's honour is as dear to me 
As is his love:— would say I ne'er dissuaded him 
From court, the state, or even from the field, 
Much as my foolish heart might wish him from it! 
No! had his ardent duty wanted flame, 
My love would have supplied it. 
Alphonso. 

Canst thou say too 
Thou hast not turn'd thy lover's smiles from Portugal, 
And pour'd them on thy country? — given his wealth 
To feed her beggars ; and his countenance 
To aid her vagrant rebels ? 

Inez. 
No, my Liege! 

Bb3 



374 

His own heart sprang to succour the distress'd, 
It's only counsel — charity. This country, 
That with it's tender arms embraced my childhood; 
Claims all my love and duty; nor in thought 
Have I yet done it wrong. O Portugal ! 
Thou foster-parent, dearer than my own, 
Ah ! do not throw to the wild waves, again 
The wreck which thou didst save! — Great Sire! forgiv* 
me! 

Alphqnso.. ' 
Vain breath and trifling ! — know that I came hither 
To punish, not to talk. 

Inez. 

Ah! have you not 
Already punish'd ?— view my wretched state. 
Those eyes, which scowl a fearful menace on me 
To wither up my heart, are instruments 
Of cruel punishment. O generous King! 
Relieve me now !— regard a suppliant stranger, 
Who here has none to help but you and Heaven ! 



375 

COELLO. 

Where is her hero then? (aside) 
Alphonso, 
Encourage not 
A hope from me : if Heaven indeed can help thee 
Address it, and be quick! 

Inez. 
"What mean you, Sir? 
Alphonso. 
All the poor solace, which departing life 
Can steal from hope of Heaven, I'll not deny thee. 
Short be thy woman's prayer ! 
Inez. 
Ha! will you murder me? 
Alphonso. 
No ! — as a victim offer thee to justice. 
Murder's the deed of passion. — I am temperate : 
No insurrection struggles in my breast: 
My pulse beats health.— No! I'll not murder thee; 
But thou must die. 

sb4 



376 

Inez. 

Oh ! let me live, dread Monarch 1 
A feeble trembling woman. Valour scorns 
An unresisting foe; and man embrues not 
His hands in woman's blood. Heaven gave to man ' 
Courage and strength; — poor woman fears and weakness: 
But made those fears and weakness her defence 
In man's conciliation. O Alphonso! 
Stain not your victor-sword, or wrong your greatness 
With such a deed of horror! 

Alphonso. 
Talk to Heaven! 
I'll wait: be speedy! for your forfeit life 
'Tis not the soldier takes it — but the sovereign; 
Not as an act of valour — but of justice. 
Justice, not less than war, can boast her triumphs ; 
Oft as illustrious, and as dearly earn'd 
By victory o'er instinct, and brute nature. 
Inez. 
Vict'ry o'er nature ! — most dishonourable ! 
What was made man to harden into fiend 



377 

Most impious! The fine clay, which form'd man's 

heart, 
God soften'd with compassion's milk, to make it 
Apt to receive the stamp of other's woe. 
O deem not great what is unnatural! 
Submit to Heaven's benevolent appointment! 
Nor scorn to feel as man ! 

Alphonso. 

Thou talk'st in vain. 
'Tis reason's glory to preside o'er instinct. 
And why disturb'd at death? — it is life's goal 
Which all must reach : I soon must follow thee. 
Even this proud fabric of the earth and Heavens, 
Built for eternity, they say shall perish, 
Faded and lost : then why should' st thou repine, 
That thou art not immortal ? — No ! die ! die ! 
♦Tis but a few thick risings of the breath, 
And the short toil is o'er. 

Inez. 
Death! agony! 



378 

Most horrible ! oh ! nature shrinks from them ! 
And in life's prime! torne from my late-found parent! 
From my sweet infant, nourish'd with my bosom ! 
From my dear — dear — Oh ! mercy ! grant me mercy ! 
Mercy is Heaven's own essence ; thence derived 
Into the breasts of kings to make them god-like, 
Resembling their great Lord ! 

GoNSALEZ. 

Think, Sire! of justice! 
'Tis justice is divine. 

Inez. 
Ah! justice never 
Could save a soul! and they who shew no mercy 
Shall have but justice. O destroy me not ! 
Banish me rather to some distant shore, 
Whence I may ne'er return to injure Portugal! 
There will I toil to linger out my days ; 
To glean a scanty meal for my poor child, 
Strain'd to my breast and moisten'd with my tears, 
On the cold ground beneath the churlish skies. 



379 

Our state may touch even savages with pity, 

And they may lend it aid; and I will pray 

For blessings on the king that saved our lives. 

But should you spill my blood, my guiltless blood, 

Each vocal drop will to the ear of God 

Call not in vain for vengeance ! — Oh ! that look 

Shot comfort to my soul! 

Alphonso. 
Yes! — she hath moved me! (aside) 

But should I banish thee 

Coello. 
Think you, my Liege! 
The Prince would not retrieve and bring her back, 
To crush her foes — your friends? 

GONSALEZ. 

This, Sire ! I dreaded 
When you should see her: — then you mock'd my fears, 
And talk'd of matchless constancy ! 
Alvaro. 

My Sovereign ! 



380 

Those precious pledges of your royal line 
The Princess Constance 3 left to Portugal, 
Demand your care, and check your cruel mercy. 
Their mother's injured spirit hovers o'er you; 
Alarm'd to see you doubt, whether the throne 
Be fill'd by hers, or by this stranger's offspring. 

Alphonso. 
Thanks for your aid! it hath confirm'd my virtue. 
'Tis past, and — she must die ! 
Inez. 

Ye cruel men! 
Whose hands would suffocate the infant mercy, 
And tear my sovereign from me ! O regard not 
These counsellors of blood ! The Lady Constance, 
Were she alive, would find her offspring cherish'd 
With all a parent's fondness. To the throne 
The voice of Portugal affirms their right. 
For me and my poor infant, all I ask 
Is bread, and the worm's privilege of life. 

3 A former wife of Pedro's. 



3SL 

Alphonso. 
I'll hear no more! — Poor wretch ! thou plead'st in 
vain. 

Inez. 
Turn not away, O King! — Kill me yourself! 
Let me not fall by these fierce men ! — their swords 
Will give more pangs than yours. O my dear child ! 
How wilt thou live without thy mother's tenderness? 
Ah ! now approach not this once-fost'ring bosom! 
'Twill yield thee blood! — a mother's blood! for milk! 
O Pedro! how my heart is rent to think 
Of thy sharp pains, — doom'd as thou art to see me 
Thy horror, not thy love! 

Alphonso. (aside) 

Some pale, soft drops 

Collect about my heart. She need not die. 

What's that? {Voices and clashing of swords behind the 
scenes'] Even with your lives forbid his entrance ! 
Inez. 
O Heavens ! {'Guard lead in Fernandez disarmed] 



382 

Alphonso. 
Who's here? 
Officer. 

This stranger, Sire ! 

Fernandez. 
In chains ? 
'Twill make my fibres brass to mock the impediment 
Of feeble flesh and bones. 

( Struggling and breaking from the Guard he throws his 
arms about Inez. J 

Yes !— Inez ! — yet 
These arms can shelter thee, poor trembling child! 
Heavens for a sword ! 

Alphonso (to the Guard). 
Why gaze ye thus? slaves! dastards! 

( Guard force Fern, away, and hold him.) 
Tear them asunder ! Well ! now daring wretch ! 
Thy name — and why with giant treason's mien 
Rush in upon us thus ? 



383 

Fernandez. 

My name is lost, 
Canceird by black oppression.—" Treason ?"-— Patience ! 
'Tis God's and Nature's order to protect 
The weak and innocent! 

Alphonso. 

Thy voice and air 
Breathe something of a dignity: but wherefore 
With reckless madness thus hurl strange defiance 
Against the front of justice? 

Fernandez. 
"Justice?"— God! 
Canst thou restrain thy bolt when thus thou seest 
Base — coward cruelty usurp the name 
Of that high virtue, that sits throned in power 
At thy right hand, and when thou com'st to judgment, 
Shall rule the dreadful day ? Declare her crime ! 
She is my child, and from her cradle hours 
These eyes have search'd her deeds, nay, thoughts, and 

found them 
Pure as her looks. 



384 

Alphonso. 

Infirm and light of temper ! 
I've heard thee! — and, though kings may well disdain 
To stand the buffet of a vassal's questions, 
I'll answer thee. That seeming innocence 
Is mischief's instrument : within those eyes 
Lives a destroying power, and thence directs 
The shafts commission'd for a nation's ruin. 
Ask me not more. The sword, that hastens now 
To cut the ties of guilt, and rid the realm 
Of it's ill genius, but obeys the call 
Of state necessity. 

Fernandez. 

Ay ! — " State necessity !" 
The tyrant's veil for deeds of blackest hue ! 
With this into the absent eagle's nest 
Thou steal'st to rob it of it's joys and pride. 

Alphonso. 
Ha! ruffian ! say'st thou?— art thou then her father? 
I as a father blush to see thee make 



385 

Thy daughter's shame thy own: — fie! fie! old man! 
To pander for thy child ! 

Fernandez. 

O ! had I words to 

The tongue that thus can slander me is false ! 
Dipt in hell's foulest lake! De Castro's line 
Knows not dishonour: could she be the wretch 
Thou speak'st her, King! this — this avenging hand 
Would shed her tainted blood ; but she is pure — 
Your Pedro's wife — his chaste — his equal wife ! 
Inez. 
Oh ! lost beyond all hope ! 

Alphonso. 
[Aside, walking about disturbed^ What say'st thou ? wife ? 
Wife? — this exceeds my fears! [to Inez] Say! is the 

tale 
Forged by this weak man's pride ? or have thine arts 
Climb'd thus successfully the heights of treason 
And crown'd thy lover's shame? 
cc 



386 

Inez. 

Ah! Sire! 
Fernandez. 

Nay, speak— 
Let him not scare thee into falsehood, child! 
Reject the brand of shame! think what is due 
To Heaven, thyself, and me! 

Alphonso (to the Guard.) 

Remove him hence ! 
Inez. 
O save him ! spare my father ! 
Fernandez f struggling and offering to kneel.) 
Yet, Alphonso! 
Thyself a father, hear me ! on the ground 
I sue to thee for her — 

Alphonso. 
Nay, now I scorn thee! 
Begone with him ! [ Guards force off F e r n.] 
Inez. 
My father! Oh! where art thou? 
All now is dark around me. 



387 

Alphonso. 

Cease! and speak! — 
And, as thou hopest for Heaven, remember truth ! 
Art thou the Prince's wife? 

Inez. 

Ah Sire I though death 
Await the words, mine and my Pedro's vows 
Were at the altar breathed! He who strikes me 
Slays Pedro's wife! 

Alphonso. 
A peasant's daughter wear 
The crown of Portugal ? 

Inez. 
No peasant's daughter, Sire! 

Of noble lineage 

Alphonso. 

Not another word! 
Hadst thou as many lives as hairs I'd take them : 
For Portugal would claim the numerous slaughter. 
Hence with her and dispatch! 
cc2 



388 

Inez. 

Oh! mercy! mercy! 
Let me but live an hour, and I will bare 
My bosom to your swords ! 

Alphonso. 

No! not a minute! 
Inez. 
But till I clasp my child, and on it's lips 
Press a last lingering kiss. 

Alphonso. 

Away! away! 
And drag her to her fate ! 

Inez. 
O righteous Heavens! 
Yet mercy !— oh! oh ! (as Gonsal. Alv. and Coel. 
are dragging her off the stage) 
Gonsalez. 
(Behind the scenes) Die, thou sorceress! 
Alvaro. 
Die! 



COELLO. 

Hold ! it must not be ! 
Inez. 
Oh! pardon, God! 
Receive my spirit! pardon! Oh! my Pedro! — 
[Re-enter Alv. and Gon. from the murder, with their 
swords and hands bloody, Co el. following them.'] 

Alphonso. 
How's this, Coello? thou look'st pale and tremblest. 
What! is the sight of justice so alarming, 
That thus it shakes thee? 

Coello. 

Mighty Sir! I know not: 
But I am weak, and own this deed has thrill'd me. 
Would it were yet undone ! 

Alvaro. 

My Liege! I deem'd 
My friend Coello made of stouter stuff 
Than to surrender at the fateful crisis 
That Roman virtue which till then he held, 
cc 3 



390 

Alphonso. 
For shame, Coello! — what! is this thy manhood? 
'Tis well Gonsalez and Alvaro own'd 
More constant spirits. Fie ! — this milky blood, 
This whiteness of the liver is most boy-like; 
And must be cured before thou canst be man. 
But who is this ? — the Queen ! 

Enter Queen. 
Queen. 

I've sought you, Sir ! 
At Coimbra; and rejoice — beyond my hope 
To find you here : — the man of peace no doubt, 
Come to assuage the anguish you excited. 
Have you yet seen the — Ha! your countenance 
Is charged with fate! — O God! these men of blood, 
In murderer's livery, make me die with terror! 
What have you done? 

Alphonso. 

A deed of glory, Madam! 
Call on your favourite minion, and unless 



391 

The impotence of death can find a tongue 
To mock the living — she'll not answer thee! 
Queen. 
O Heaven! — not slain! 

Alphonso. 

Her blush is quench'd for ever. 
The dimple on her cheek shall wreathe no more 
To lure the glance of love, and cozen Pedro. 
Queen. 
O wretched man ! — a deed of glory ? 
Alphonso. 

Yes! 
Of glory — which loud fame shall blazon, Madam ! 
As long as justice, or the patriot virtue 
Shall hold renown on earth. 

Queen. 
A deed of glory ? 
No! — 'tis a deed of shame! — of cowardice!— 
Of cruelty, and complicated guilt! 
Oh! 'tis a deed, which, in succeeding ages, 
c c 4 



302 

Shall violently pluck from softest tongues 

Harsh curses on the name of dire Alphonso 

The woman-murderer ! — Oh ! she was goodness ! 

And when she rises in her robes of light, 

Wash'd from her own pure blood, which shall for ever 

Stain thee, and these red murder's ministers, 

This angel, standing at the Almighty's throne, 

Shall blast thee ! 

Alphonso. 
Let us leave this peevish woman ! 
To weigh "our act asks other hands than hers : 
Statesmen and kings, my Lords ! must hold the scales. 
Madam! your words play idly on my ear: 
But go and try their virtue on your Pedro ! 
Assuage his first sharp pangs ; — recall his manhood ; — ■ 
And tell him what his sire has done, has been 
In care of him. When he regains himself, 
He'll own and thank our love. See thou, Alvaro! 
The father be released : — I bear the sword 
Not for my own, but for my kingdom's wrongs, 



393 

And him I would not hurt: — him I could pity, 
If any of my mother linger'd in me. 
Madam ! to Pedro ! [Exit, with Alv. #c. 

Queen. 

What! the father here 
To see the daughter bleed! — 'tis horror's triumph! 
And said he not—" to Pedro?" Ha! to Pedro ? 
To tell him that his wife — his soften'd self— 
Whom more than breath he prized — 
Who answer'd all his love with fonder love — 
Lies welt'ring in her gore, most foully murder'd 
By his inhuman sire! — Can this be told him? 
Even from a seraph's tongue, the dreadful tale 
Would wound his ear worse than the howl of wolves 
O'er rifled sepulchres. O Pedro! Pedro! 
O Inez ! loved as if thine infant lips 
Had drain' d these breasts. 

Enter Fernandez. 
Fernandez. 

Whose sorrows burst thus fondly 
For my poor murder'd child? — O! there she lies! 



394 

Ah! sinner that I am, my rashness slew her! 

These — (tearing his hair J — these shall be the strewings 

of thy corpse ! 
O my fond hope! — I thought he was a man, 
He look'd so like one. — 

Queen. 
Ah! 
Fernandez. 

Nay, pardon me! 
Queen. 
Pardon thee ! every nerve within my bosom 
Throbs with thy grief: — She was mine too: in her 
Heaven gave the daughter nature had denied me, 
A child as Pedro dear! 

Fernandez. 
She was my all — 
The sole sweet pledge of my Lorenza's love! 
Long lost, — one moment mine again : — and now, 
O now ! when age began to dream of bliss, 
Torne from me thus for ever! — O my girl ! 
Trouble and years, I thought, had dried the fountains 



395 

Of nature in my eyes ! — and yet, since morning, 
I wept upon thy neck, my child ! and now 
Must weep upon thy bier! 

Queen. 
The wrongs of fortune 
To thee are great! — toss'd o'er a length en'd tract 
Of troubled life, to find thy age's blessing, 
Torne from thy very grasp ! — yet is there one 
More deeply gulph'd in wretchedness than thou, 
Whose loss is dearer than a child's. — O Pedro! 
How wilt thou bear it? — for the purple tide, 
Which feeds thy heart, is not more vital to thee, 
Than was thine Inez ! — such a blissful union 
Was never marr'd before by guilty man ! — 

( Horns and shouts within. J 
But, oh ! that speaks him near ! — how shall I meet 

him? 
And yet I must. [Exit. 

Fernandez. 
And hast thou found a grave, 
Poor wench ! before thy sire ? — Yet thy short date 



396 

Leaves age to envy it. The mortal toil 

With thee was quickly o'er; and from the ills, 

Which stir, and blacken in the train of life, 

From pain, from casualty, — from human mischief, 

Thou art safe, my child! — nothing can now approach 

To violate thy peace ! — but thy poor father, 

The sickly sport of the gross elements, 

Beneath these changeful skies, may still be kept 

For some more searching cruelty of fate ! 

Yet what can fate do more ? — Thy face, my child, 

Had pluck'd his nature from the famish'd tiger, 

And planted pity in his breast!— but thou, 

Oh! thou, Alphonso! — thou whose human veins 

Soft fortune should have fill'd with liquid balm, 

To do a deed like this ! But the bless'd sun, 

That gives the mine its flame, the flower its sweetness, 

With all it's heavenly energy corrupts 

The carcass into foulness. 

Enter Queen, Pedro, and Attendants. 
Pedro. 
(Entering J Murder'd? say you? 



397 

Inez? — my father? — Yes— I must and will! — 

Your stop is vain! — worlds cannot hold me from her — 

Ha! in her blood! — daggers and murder!— horrible! 

Who is thus slain? — some demon frighted me 

By yelling— Inez! — where's my lovely wife? 

Tis death!— oh! well! ( Faints. 

Queen. 
Haste! chafe his temples, Sir! 
And try to bring back life. Ah this I fear'd! 
He's gone for ever! 

Fernandez. 
Be appeased! he breathes: 
His pulses play.— Raise him a little— see ! 
Life reddens on his lip ! — he moves ! — 

Pedro. 
Why call me 
Back to the hated day? Oh chosen cruelty! 
To stretch me thus upon the rack of being, 
Cursed with intelligence! — Ha! who art thou? 
The father?— no— no father! that bless'd name 



398 

Is torne from thee for ever ! Inez ! Inez ! — 
Where is she? — I must see her! — some small life 
May slumber in the heart, and at my touch 
She will awake. 

Fernandez. 
Forbear the wounding sight! 
Let me, who am a wretch, speak comfort to you. 
Oh stay ! attend to reason ! 

Pedro. 
Talk of Inez! 
Old man ! thou'st lost a daughter, fond and duteous 
As ever bless'd a parent — her soft hand 
Had gently led thee on to death, and closed 
Thy heavy lids :— but what is that? — Why man! 
She was my very soul ! — more than the love 
Of fifty fathers throned her in my bosom. 
And now — where is she? — nay, I will behold her! 
Will press her to my breast!— will fasten kisses 
On her cold lips! — Held you a mirror to them? 
A breath might stain it !— that her breath would never, 



399 

It was so pure! — Dead? — said you? — no! — hence from 

me — 
I must — must see her! 

Fernandez. 

Stay! — accept me, Sir! 
For an associate in distress! — my loss 
Is great, my feeling of it exquisite : 
Yet can I bend to Heaven;— yet fly to reason 
From passion's wild suggestions. — Hold ! your phrensy 
Can never bring her back. 

Pedro. 
Back! never! never! 
Never — is madness ! yet it may not be ! 
Hast seen her ?— speak ! — nay then her death's a fable ! 
They've only borne her hence! — what s tied her blood? 
My father shed it? — No! no! no! 
Fernandez. 

Be temperate! 
Think of my state, which fain would give the comfort 
It fondly asks. 



400 

Pedro. 

O honoured Sir ! I feel 
Returning calmness :— pardon me! — my reason 
Has wander'd, and left sense alone behind 
To agonize and rave. O Sir ! — thy fate 
Is sad: — though my heart's avarice of pain 
Would fondly grasp the whole of this rare loss, 
Yet must I yield thee part!— Ha! what is this? 

(looking on the ground) 
Look! see! 'tis blood! — whence came it?— from the 

heart? 
Most horrible ! Oh Inez ! Inez ! Inez ! 
Thou art not far! — the crimson track of murder 
Will lead me to thee ! Hence! no more delay! 

(to the Attendants) 
Where have you laid her? [Ex. Attend. 

QUE_2H. 

O my son! let her 
Who bore thee, and who fed thee with her milk, 
Entreat thee patience — yet withdraw thyself! 



401 

Exasperate not thine anguish ! Time will give thee 
The comfort, which we cannot ! 
Pedro. 

Can time, Mother ! 
Create an Inez ?— form such loveliness 
Of feature and of soul ? and then combine 
The heavenly being vitally with me ? 
Can time do this ? — See what is yonder, Madam! 
(Back scene opens, and discovers the body of Inez, with 

Attendants.) 
By Heavens, 'tis she! — but where's the fond em- 
brace 
That wont to be my welcome? — Oh! — cold !— cold ! 
Thine eyes are closed, my girl ! — O — look upon me ! 
It is thy Pedro speaks ! — would that my balls 
Were sightless — as are thine ! — this spectacle 
Makes their sense torture'— O my stout — stout heart! 
Wilt thou at length give way ?— Oh !— Oh ! (faints.) 
Queen. 

Support him ! 

nd 



402 

Nature can never bear this fearful tumult: 
And I must lose my son ! 

Fernandez. 
Hope better, Madam I 
'Tis only Nature's wise retreat from horror. 
Life is strong in him. — O! my lovely daughter! 
That I should live to this!— Pride !— Cruelty! 
Alphonso! — see! — this is your bleeding triumph 
O'er a poor guiltless woman! — Life's infliction 
With me will soon be closed ! — thank age for that! 
Nor thou, my child ! nor my Lorenza long 
Shall envy me a share of your repose. 
He wakes ! — my griefs be hush'd ! 
Pedro. 

What! still alive? 
O Death! — Death! — Death! — and wilt thou not attend, 
When a wretch calls thee to relieve his pains? 
Here thou could'st come unask'd!— but I will drag thee, 
Detested monster! — trembling and reluctant, 
From thy black cave! — this arm shall force thee to me! 



403 

Fernandez. 
(Running to Pedro.) Hold, Sir! what mean you? 
Pedro. 
Thanks ! I'm calm again ! 
Heaven hath inclosed the sanctuary of life 
From our own rash intrusion ! — Heaven's high will 
Be still obey'd ! — yes, I will bear to live! — 

(throwing the dagger on the ground) 
Away, temptation! — I will dare to suffer 
The lingering wretchedness of breath! — perhaps 
Heaven, in it's gracious pleasure, may reserve me 
To punish crimes like this! The thought revives 



me 



Blood calls for blood! But, ah! their forfeit lives 
Would ill atone for thine, thou murder'd virtue! 
— Yet would it ease my pains to see them suffer, 
The claim of justice satisfied: — to see 
My father suffer too ? — He is a murderer ! 
Would he were not my father! — Come, Alphonso! 
Perfidious and unnatural Alphonso, 
d d 2 



404 

Satiate thyself with gore!-— complete thy vengeance! 
Give me the death I ask ! 

( Behind the scenes J You must not, Madam ! 
Leonora ( behind the scenes). 
Not enter, peasant ! — hence ! — who dares deny me 
Admission to my Lord ? 

(Enter Leonora.) 
, Leonora. 

I come, my Pedro! 
Kind in despite of injuries, to offer, 
Nay, to solicit friendship. — This is sad! 

(seeing the body) 
Why look you wildly thus ? 

Pedro. 
Fly hence, thou monster! 
Lest I be tempted to avenge thy crimes. 
Behold' st thou this ! while yet thou may'st in safety, 
Away! — I charge thee! 

Leonora. 
Pedro ! I can weep 



405 

For what you weep : — weep for my rival's fall ! 
"Wrong me not with suspicion ! — all my fault 
Is mad affection for a man that hates me. 
Pedro. 
Talk of affection? — talk of murder only! 
Thy hands are thick with murder! Ocean's waters 
Can never cleanse them. 

Leonora. 
This is phrensy, Pedro ! 
I've done no harm. I grieve for what has happen'd. 
I am not stain'd with blood. 

Pedro. 
Yes! deeply, woman! 
Thou art all blood ! — each feature's grim with it : 
Thy breath is blood-stain'd ! Hence ! — or this — 

(taking up the dagger.) 
Leonora. 
Nay, strike! 
Here is my breast ! — think'st thou I fear to die, 
Like thy pale, milky Inez? — strike! 



406 

Pedro. 
Thus, then! (offering to strike.) 
But — ha! — shed woman's blood? — too much of that 
Has flow'd already!— that Alphonso sheds, 
And his fell dogs of slaughter! Live, base woman! 
Be life thy punishment, as, by thy crimes, 
It is become my woe. Hence! thy Alvaro 
Expects thee at the altar: — there Alphonso 
Shall join your spotted hands: Furies shall howl 
Your nuptial song, and curse your teeming bed 
With a large brood of murder! — Bear her hence! 

Leonora. 
Nay, then, I'll shew thee what a soul I own! 
This is a woman's act. 
(Attempts to stab herself. Pedro runs, and wrests the 

dagger from her.) 
Pedro. 

No! —Thou shalt live! 
The measure of thy guilt o'erflows already; 
Dare not to charge it more. 



407 

Leonora. 

Deny me, too, 
The privilege of death ? — but that thou canst not. 
My own high will can yet command my fate, 
And stop my struggling breath. — Alvaro wed me! 
My curses rest on him ! — Thy pains delight me! 
Yes! there she bleeds (pointing to the body J, the vic_ 

tim of my wrongs ! 
And all my share in this great act of justice 
Shall be my triumph ! [Exit, borne off. 

Fernandez. 
What a fiend is this ? 

Pedro. 
She is indeed inhuman!— O my father! 
For I have none but thee ! — if thou canst pardon 
Alphonso's offspring, let us barter charities. 
In this sad world of guilt and suffering, 
Be thy experience and example mine, 
To shew the danger and suggest the firmness : 
My youth and fortunes shall be thine to cheer thee, 



408 

And throw a transient lustre o'er thy close. 
Still, my dear mother, let thy tenderness 
Soothe thy unhappy son : I'm wholly thine. 
But hint not peace! — dissuade me not from vengeance! 
Vengeance is Heaven's demand! — Whence this intru- 
sion ? 

Enter Messenger. 
Messenger. ' 
My Lord, the country, raised by the report 
Of your invaded castle, and to action 
Led by your noble friends, the lords Henriquez 
And Orellana, hasten'd to the succour 
Of their dear mistress, and much honour'd prince. 
Pedro. 
Too late, alas ! their love to intercept 
The dreadful blow. 

Messenger. 
Too late to intercept ; 
But not, my Lord, to avenge. 

Pedro. 
What's that ? — say on ! 



409 

Messenger. 
Soon as the people heard of the dire deed, 
They flew to seize the passes, which command 
The road to Coimbra. There they met the assassins, 
Attack'd and routed them. 

Pedro. 
Oh!— to the issue! 
Fell the cursed sons of murder? 

Messenger. 
The King fled, 
Saved by the valour of a faithful few 
Among his guards. Undaunted was his spirit, 
And, lion-like, even in his flight he threaten'd. 
But his three friends were taken. 
Pedro. 
Haste! run! fly! 
Seize ! — drag them here ! 

Messenger. 
The furious people took 
Their forfeit lives. 

e e 



410 

Pedro. 
How died they? 
Messenger. 
Old Gonsalez 
Gloomy and sullen : but the other two 
Suing with tears for life. 

Pedro. 
Ha ! could they fear 
To suffer what they fear'd not to inflict ? 
Most cruel dastards ! 

Messenger. 
The indignant people 
Bade them expect the mercy that they gave : 
Then plunged a hundred weapons in their bosoms. 
Pedro. 
Heavens! this is right! — would that my eyes had 
seen it ! ' 
My hands had done it!— Ah! their deaths were speedy? 
Messenger. 
Instant, my Lord. 



''■"■ 



411 

Pedro. 

Hell-hounds ! — they should have been 
Ages in dying!— should have howl'd away 
Their horrid souls in flames !— yet death, perhaps, 
Is all that man can claim from wretched man. 
Messenger. 

The assembled multitude, with the great nobles 
Of Douro and the north, 'tis said, my Lord, 
To-morrow will be here to tender you 
The throne, from which they vow to tear Alphonso. 
Pedro. 

That must not be. — Retire! — your zeal, my friend, 
Shall have reward.— (Exit Messenger.) No — never 

will I wrench 
The sceptre from the Monarch's grasp! — still live! 
Still reign, my Sire ! — thy bosom — not thy son — 
Be thy crime's punisher ! — and what, alas ! 
Is empire now to me, who stand alone 
Upon a ruin'd world ? — Be thine, my mother, 
To calm our friends' resentments, and suspend 



412 

The bloody foot of war : — and oh ! provide 

That this sweet clay be solemnly intomb'd } 

With all the rites of royalty. — O Inez ! 

I thought, my love, to pass with thee a life 

Blessing and bless'd! — ah, miserable error! 

Farewell — for ever ! — When my heart hath ceased 

From it's sad labour, as it soon must cease, 

Oh ! lay me to her bosom in the grave, 

Where man's fell pride shall never part us more. 

{Exeunt. 



THE END. 



Plummer and Brewis, Printers, Love-lane, Eastcheap. 












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